Night and the City
by KNO3
Summary: Picks up where The Dark Knight left off and explores the Nolanverse origins of classic Batman friends and foes. Expect to see the DC Comics Rogue's Gallery plus lots of Joker and Batman. Current Rogues: Riddler, Catwoman, Ventriloquist.
1. A Time to Heal

Rupert Thorne was not a happy man.

It was bad enough that three of Gotham's largest, oldest, and most prestigious crime families had been levelled by some sick freak in clown makeup. Not that Thorne had ever liked Gambol or Maroni- and the Chechen was competition, pure and simple. But he was a man of honor, a man of courage, a man of tradition. The Thorne family had ties to Gotham's underbelly going back to the days of Prohibition, when Ernest Thorne converted his simple grocer's business into a smuggling network, supplying speakeasies across Old Gotham with the finest product available. During the fifties and sixties, John, Paul, and Marko split the family business and switched to drugs and vice, vying for control and bickering in violent shootouts until the family name had all but died out on the streets. It took someone strong, someone with power and connections and charisma to draw the family back together and mend broken relationships. Someone like Rupert Thorne.

For years, he'd worked to unite the Thorne family, build up street rep, and reconstruct the empire. Gotham was a city of rust, and Thorne catered to it in the form of drugs, weapons, and trafficked girls brought in from Mexico, China, Japan, India... Taking a sip of his whisky, Thorne shook his head and stared out over the city. And then Dent had shown up, idealistic and uncorruptable and focused on bringing down all the major crime bosses of Gotham. The psychotic Joker had arrived hard on his heels, crushed the largest three drug dealers and commandeered their operations, and promptly wasted his new power in a senseless, insane, and horrific scheme. In a stroke of business brilliance, Thorne had pulled up his stakes in the narcotics industry and moved into trafficking, bookkeeping, and contract hits. Dent had been unable to pin anything on him during his brief stint as Gotham's White Knight, and the Joker had gone for the more flashy drugs, guns, and explosives.

With the Joker back in Arkham, the Gotham underworld found itself facing a power vacuum- and Thorne found himself the biggest player on the field. The time had never been better for illegal expansions.

Except for the Batman. Thorne swore quietly and set down his glass, turning from the window to the luxurious interior of his thirty-fifth floor office. He hated the vigilante, hated him wholeheartedly. The appearance of the Batman had heralded the age of freaks in masks running wild in Gotham City. And unlike the Joker and Arkham's fear-obsessed former director, Batman remained at large.

A quiet knock shook Thorne from his reverie. He turned towards the ornate oak door and pressed the intercom button.

"Who is it?"

"I-I- I think you should see this, M-Mr. Thorne."

Thorne sighed and rolled his eyes briefly.

"What is it this time, Wesker?" he snapped, only to be answered by incoherent static. Biting back a curse, he strode to the door and flung it open. "Speak, man, or get out! I haven't got all day!"

Wesker, a diminuitive, slightly overweight man in his late thirties, blanched visibly and fell back, clutching his clipboard in front of him. Thorne glared at him.

"Well?"

"I- I, well, not that I'm not grateful for the job and everything, but I-I..." Wesker paused, swallowing several times before blurting out, "I think the police are on to me."

Rupert Thorne closed his eyes and sighed. He'd taken Arnold Wesker in mainly in memory of the man's late father, a contract killer on the Thorne payroll who'd been iced by the Chechen years ago. Arnold had moved out of town and, by all accounts, tried and failed at a long succession of professions. When he turned up on Thorne's doorstep a little over a month ago, dressed in threadbare clothing and miserably nervous, and practically begged for a job, Thorne had taken him on. The Thorne family remembered their friends. Unfortunately, Arnold was nothing like his late father- a walking bundle of neuroses that couldn't stand still long enough to hold a gun, much less fire one.

"Wesker," Thorne growled, adjusting his silver watch with one hand, "the police are not 'on to you.' But if you're getting cold feet..." he eyed the man ominously.

"No, no, it's not that, sir! I just... well, I think they're following me. They were at the club last night, and one of them followed me home."

"Probably because you were shaking so badly he thought you might have a heart attack," grunted Thorne.

"And... and on the," Wesker swallowed painfully. "On the payroll, this Lieutenant Flass..."

"I know Flass. He's a good cop," Thorne said, meaning that the good Lieutenant was not. "If he's following you, Wesker, you haven't got anything to worry about."

"No, he... he sent a message. He wants... w-wants more money."

Thorne's fist came crashing down on his desk.

"More? We're already paying that S.O.B. two grand a month," he growled. "What else did he say?"

"That if y-you didn't pay up, he'd... he'd arrest me," Wesker fairly squeaked.

Thorne sighed and closed his eyes. Yes, it would be just like Flass to intimidate Wesker. It was smart, too. Not only was Wesker spineless enough to cave under the slightest pressure, he was a fair bookkeeper, and Thorne had put him to work fixing accounts and records for one of the legitimate "front" businesses. One night in custody, and Wesker would be singing like a canary. Thorne cursed silently and turned back to Wesker.

"All right. I'll get on it." He would need to arrange a meeting with Flass and either intimidate him into leaving Wesker alone or pay him an extra... however much it was the crooked cop was sticking him for this time. That meant finding a secluded place _not _prone to ambushes by men who dressed as flying rodents. With a heavy sigh, he turned back to the desk- and saw Wesker still trembling in front of the desk. "Well, why are you still here? Get out!"

"Y-yes sir!"

And Arnold Wesker beat a hasty retreat.

* * *

><p>"Don't get me wrong, Jim, I'm sure Detective Harper is a great cop, really great. But he's just not what we <em>need <em>any longer. Times are changing- you saw the horrors the Joker visited on Gotham."

"We're not dealing with the Joker." Commissioner James Gordon leaned back in his chair and regarded Mayor Anthony Garcia with what he hoped was a respectful, un-exasperated stare. "And while I agree with you that the force could use some... new blood... I don't like the look of this Coleman's file. Suspected of taking a bribe, police brutality-"

"The charges were dropped, Jim! And if you don't like Coleman, pick another detective- you've got a whole stack of files to choose from."

"You'll excuse my saying, Mayor, that choosing our 'new blood' from Chicago and LAPD transfers is-"

"Our last option," Garcia said bluntly. "With full respect to you, Commissioner, the Gotham Police Department is one of the most corrupt in the nation. I looked over these profiles personally- each of the officers is highly trained in his or her field of expertise. Take this, uh, Harvey Bullock, from New York. One of the highest turnover rates on the force- Jim, you have to admit that counts for something."

"Yes," Gordon muttered. "So he's either brilliant or crooked."

The Mayor sighed.

"I know," he admitted. "But what other choice do we have? There isn't exactly a line forming to transfer to Gotham. The way I see it, we can take the transfers, like Bullock, and hope they aren't corrupt, or we can stick with our own, like Harper, and be sure of it. If you have any other ideas, I'm open to suggestion."

Slowly, regretfully, James Gordon shook his head.

"Let me see those files again."

* * *

><p>With an angry growl, Rupert Thorne flipped his cell phone open and punched in a number. If Flass put him on hold, so help him, Thorne wouldn't be responsible for his actions.<p>

"Hello, Flass here."

"Flass," Thorne snapped. "We need to talk."

"Oh really? Look, honey, I'm busy right now. Can you call me back later?"

Thorne rolled his eyes and stifled a growl of irritation.

"Fine. Meet me at the usual place. Ten o'clock. Don't be late."

"Wouldn't dream of it. Buh-bye."

* * *

><p>Gordon let the manila envelope fall to the desk and sighed, rubbing his temples wearily. Twenty-four transfer requests, and not a one of them without internal affairs investigations, some ongoing. But, loath as he was to admit it, the mayor had a point. Gordon loved the Gotham City Police Department dearly, wouldn't leave it for the world, but had to admit it was about as clean as a prostitute's unwashed laundry. And with Gotham's White Knight- no, he wouldn't even go there. Dent's "death" at the hands of the Batman was still too fresh, too raw to think about.<p>

Gordon glanced down at the open file and reached for his phone.

"Yeah, what is it?" The voice on the other hand rivaled Batman's for raspiness, with a strong New York accent to boot. Gordon instinctively cringed.

"Yes, hello, this is Police Commissioner James Gordon calling from Gotham City."

There was a brief pause.

"Commish? Harvey Bullock. I was sorta hopin' you'd call back." The man sounded like he had a cement truck stuck in his throat. Even without looking at the pixelated grey snapshot in the file, Gordon could clearly picture Bullock as a gritty, slightly overweight beat cop turned detective after too many violent run-ins with local criminals. He knew the type. Heck, with a litte less luck, he could have been the type.

"Yes, well, we're interested in your transfer application and-"

"That's peachy keen. When can I come down there?" Bullock interrupted. "I mean, for th' interview. I flew down- visitin' my sister's kids and all."

"Ah... well... if you're in town, we've got an open slot at four," Gordon replied. "But I really can't-"

"You got it. Thanks for the call, Commish. I won't disappoint."

CLICK. The call ended. James Gordon looked at his cell phone, sighed again, and pressed the redial button.

"Hello? Detective O'Flannery? This is Police Commissioner James Gordon..."

* * *

><p>Bruce Wayne sighed and turned away from the window. Wayne Manor was conveniently located on a hill overlooking the Palisades on one side and the affluent, ever-busy Historic Gotham Downtown District on the other. He should be happy- happy that the Manor's "refurbishment" was complete, the ancient mansion restored to its former glory, the cave fitted out with state-of-the-art electronic equipment, including a giant, undetectable supercomputer, compliments of Lucius Fox... but it all seemed wrong somehow. He stared moodily out over Old Gotham and watched as chain lightning flickered ominously over distant thunderclouds.<p>

"Brooding again, sir? I was under the impression you had hoped to kick the habit after Ra's al Ghul. Or was it the Joker? Or Dr. Crane?" Alfred Pennyworth's clipped British accent intruded on Bruce's thoughts, and he turned away from the window.

"It doesn't matter, Alfred," he said. "As long as there are criminals in Gotham, the Batman must rise up to stop them."

"Mmm," the butler replied. "But the Joker is gone- to Arkham, I understand."

"But will he stay there?" Bruce turned back to the window. "He's brilliant. A deranged, psychotic, homicidal sociopath with no morals or concept of human empathy... but brilliant nonetheless. Though I hate to say it... I seriously doubt he'll stay there long."

"Indeed?" Alfred came to stand beside Bruce, crossing his arms over his chest. "But I hear Arkham's security measures are state-of-the-art. It's practically a fortress."

Bruce narrowed his eyes and stared at distant stormclouds, watching lightning jump from cloud bank to cloud bank. There was a distant, muted roll of thunder.

"That wasn't what I meant."

* * *

><p>"Thorne, good buddy! Good to see you!"<p>

Lieutenant Flass, a strapping blond ex-Marine with a perpetually cheerful smile and over three hundred pounds of solid muscle to back it up, slapped Rupert Thorne heavily on the back. The mob boss shot Flass an evil look and reached for his cup of coffee, sipping it and staring balefully at the police officer over the cup.

"Flass," he said at last, keeping his voice low and even. "I hear you want a raise."

Flass nearly choked on his own coffee, snorting loudly and sprewing dark liquid across the table. He turned the cough into an easy laugh and set down the coffee mug, wiping cappacino deluxe from his uniform front.

"C'mon, Rupert," he said, flashing Thorne a good-natured grin and somehow avoiding eye contact. "We're old friends here. What's a few hundred a month between friends?"

"Friends don't threaten friends' workers," Thorne snapped. "At least not when they're dealing with spineless little bookies like Wesker."

"Hey, be cool," Flass said. "I didn't know he was that important to you. I'd be glad to lay off him... for a fee."

Thorne heaved a deep sigh.

"How much is it this time?"

"Not much. Cynthia's splitting, and..." Flass rolled his eyes and shrugged his shoulder. "You know what a pain in the neck that is. Wants to split the furniture and everything. A guy's got to get by, and-"

"Skip the excuses and tell me how much."

"Five hundred. But," Flass amended, seeing the scowl on Thorne's face darken considerably, "I could probably make do on four hundred."

"Two hundred."

"What? You can't be serious! The cost of living's going up. Four hundred at least."

"Three hundred fifty, and that's my last offer."

Flass shook his head and took a long drink from his cup of coffee to hide a smile. He would have been more than happy with three hundred, but Thorne didn't need to know that.

"Fine. Three hundred fifty. Trust me, Thorne, you won't regret this decision."

"Too late," Thorne grumbled under his breath.

* * *

><p>"So you're Commissioner Gordon."<p>

Commissioner Gordon looked up from his cup of coffee to see a large, hulking man in a dirty trenchcoat and battered fedora standing over him. He didn't know whether to laugh or raise an eyebrow at the condition of said clothing, so he merely held out a hand and nodded politely.

"Detective Bullock, I take it?"

"You got it. Hey, babe, can I get your biggest cup of coffee, black, with two doughnuts if ya have any?" Bullock motioned to a passing waitress. "Thanks. You're a doll."

Gordon winced. If the press got wind of him using the word 'doll,' he'd be slapped with a sexual harassment case faster than he could imagine.

"So you're from New York," he said.

"That's right, Commish."

"If you don't mind me asking, why are you looking to transfer to Gotham?" No use wasting questions. Gordon cut straight to the point.

Bullock shifted in his seat, looking slightly uncomfortable.

"You saw my file," he said defensively. "I made a mistake. Arrested the wrong guy. Okay, so maybe he was my sister's ex. And maybe I wasn't exactly gentle with the guy either. But I swear, Commish, I did not withhold that evidence. I had everything in bags, all ready ta go, and it ain't none of my fault one of 'em went missing."

"Hmph." Gordon turned back to his cup of coffee. "Any idea where it did go?"

Again, a sheepish, almost embarrassed look crossed the burly detective's face.

"I had a partner," he muttered. "The pipe- I mean, the missing evidence- well, it would have put away a, uh, big player, and..."

"I understand," Gordon nodded. He'd checked it out himself- Bullock might or might not be crooked, but his former partner had certainly been on the take. "I'll be blunt with you, Detective. Gotham is a dark city. We're dealing with more than your run-of-the-mill crooks now- I'm sure you saw the news broadcasts- and our police force is as corrupt as hell. If, and I say _if, _I bring you on board, I won't tolerate any deals. None. Zero. The first sign of favoritism or backhand deals, and you'll be slapped with an investigation so fast it will make your head spin. Understand?"

Bullock nodded, his expression serious.

"I'm with ya a hundred percent, Commish. Ya won't regret this decision."

"I hope not," sighed Gordon.

* * *

><p>"Whatever you meant, sir, you must admit that Gotham City has been surprisingly quiet as of late," Alfred replied. "Perhaps it is time to refocus your efforts. The Batman-"<p>

"Is a wanted felon, a murderer," Bruce said. "Gordon's men are still scouring the streets for him. For me."

"I was going to say, the Batman may not be needed in Gotham," said Alfred. "At least, not for the time being. It may be time for Bruce Wayne to step up to the plate, so to speak, and lead the effort in rebuilding Gotham." Gently, Alfred placed a hand on Bruce's shoulder. "The Joker came near to destroying us all. Perhaps now... now is the time to heal."

Bruce sighed. Tearing his eyes off the darkening sky over Gotham, he turned to face Alfred.

"Perhaps you're right," he said quietly.

* * *

><p>Love it? Hate it? Let me know in the reviews section. All comments are welcome, but especially those that give helpful advice andor ways to improve. (:


	2. In Loving Memory

"You want _what, _Mr. Wayne?"

Bruce quirked an eyebrow at Lucius Fox over the top of his glass.

"I want to start taking a more active part in Wayne Enterprises," he said. "Why, is that a problem?"

"No problem, Mr. Wayne," Fox said with a chuckle. "Going to start trying to stay awake in board meetings from now on?"

"You've been talking to Alfred," Bruce said, setting his glass down carefully. "Yes, Lucius, I'll try not to doze. But I've been thinking."

"An excellent exercise," the older businessman quipped. "Pray continue."

Bruce shook his head, suppressing a laugh, and Lucius couldn't help chuckling himself. He could hardly remember the last time he'd seen Bruce smile, even at one of Alfred's dry jokes.

"I'd like to set up a charitable foundation," Bruce said.

"What, you mean in addition to your regular contributions to Arkham Asylum?" Lucius asked.

"No. I mean yes. I'd like to create something... a foundation or a grant that will honor my parents," Bruce replied. "A way to make sure that Gotham City will never forget them."

Lucius nodded.

"I think we have room in the budget. What did you have in mind?"

* * *

><p>"Well, Jim?"<p>

Mayor Garcia leaned back in his plush chair and regarded the Police Commissioner with a hopeful stare of anticipation. Gordon sighed- but it was a sigh of relief and not of weariness.

"Thank God there are still clean cops in the world," he said. "I had to interview over a dozen, but I found four that I'm fairly sure are solid."

Mayor Garcia relaxed and broke into a relieved smile.

"Glad to hear it, Jim. Glad to hear it."

"Now, mind you," Jim said quickly, "they're not necessarily the brightest or the best-looking or even the most politically correct... but I have a feeling things are about to get a hell of a lot better around here."

"So do I," Mayor Garcia replied. "Though I hate to say it, the Joker almost did Gotham a favor by getting rid of the big players in organized crime. And now that _he's _in Arkham, and ex-Dr. Crane with him, that only leaves our murderous vigilante."

"Oh... yes." Gordon shifted uneasily. He still felt a twinge of sorrow and shame every time the Batman was mentioned. The Dark Knight had voluntarily made himself out to be a murderer to protect Dent's image, but... deception was little better than hopelessness in James Gordon's book. If anyone ever found out...

"You are still making an effort to apprehend him, I hope?" the Mayor said, face growing serious.

"Uh... of course." _Liar._

"We're holding a citywide memorial service for Dent tomorrow on the steps of Gotham Cathedral," the Mayor went on, oblivious to Jim Gordon's increasing discomfort. "I was hoping you'd come and say a few words."

Gordon almost felt sick.

"About what?"

The Mayor turned on him with a puzzled frown.

"About how you're trying to catch the Batman," he said. "The city's grieving, Gordon- they need to hear that someone is working to bring down the perp who murdered Dent."

"I don't know..."

"Look, what exactly is wrong here, Gordon? The Batman killed five people in cold blood, including the best damn hope we've had in decades. That makes him not just a serial killer, but a serial killer hated by most of Gotham. The people are not going to take it well if they think nothing is being done about Dent's murder." Mayor Garcia leaned back in his chair, scowling. "And I won't take it well, either. I want you to come to the memorial, talk about how you're working overtime to catch the perp, maybe introduce the detective heading up the investigation... reassure Gotham that the police force is on the move and not playing favorites with freaks in masks."

"Look, Mayor, I really think we should-"

"There's nothing to discuss. The public needs to know that the Gotham City Police Department is on the up-and-up. We're rebuilding Gotham's faith in the law- and that starts with Dent's murder. Am I clear?"

Gordon sighed heavily.

"Yes, sir."

* * *

><p>"You've certainly given this a lot of thought, sir."<p>

Alfred stepped back from the wall, gazing up in admiration at the life-sized portrait of Thomas and Martha Wayne seated in front of the manor fireplace.

"Yeah, well, I wanted to replace the one destroyed in the fire," Bruce replied. "The artist had to work off of the old photo album, but I think he did all right."

"An excellent job, sir," Alfred nodded. "But I wasn't entirely referring to the portrait."

Bruce sighed, concealing a smile from the butler. He'd spent most of the morning in conferences with various businessmen in Wayne Enterprises, trying to convince them to start a charitable foundation while keeping up his "swinging playboy" act. "Good PR," he'd said. "I wanna... I wanna change my image," he'd said. Most of them had been stunned for a moment before practically falling over themselves to encourage the "change of image." He'd been told four times what an excellent decision this was, and how Wayne Enterprises was frankly in need of good PR, and would he please consider hiring a public relations expert- just to make sure it was done professionally.

And Alfred was right. He'd given what he was tentatively calling "The Wayne Foundation" a _lot _of thought.

"Yes, well," he said, looking at his shoes and feeling like the bashful schoolboy called to the front of the class for praise, "I wanted something that would make them proud. I've already talked to Lucius and hammered out the de-"

Bruce was cut off mid-sentence by the chime of the doorbell.

"Oops. Guessing that must be the mayor," he said, glancing at his watch slightly guiltily.

Alfred raised an eyebrow.

"The mayor, sir?"

"Coming to talk with me about the dedicating the new foundation in public," Bruce said. "I scheduled the interview yesterday. Didn't expect he'd get back with me so soon."

"Well, you _are _among the most wealthy of the city," Alfred pointed out, heading for the door. "Election is just around the corner" Leaving the study, he descended the grand staircase, crossed the lobby, and opened the heavy oak door to reveal a slighly nervous man in a well-tailored business suit. "Ah, yes, Mr. Mayor. Do come in. Mr. Wayne is in the study... just follow me."

The mayor nodded to Alfred, trying- and failing- not to stare as he followed the butler across the lobby, up a marble staircase with beautifully carved stone heads for posts, down a hall of dark wood and heavy carpeting, and into a book-filled "study" easily the size of his own garage.

"Mr. Wayne!" Mayor Garcia smiled brightly at the billionaire. "How good to see you again!"

"Uh... likewise, I'm sure," Bruce said, carelessly picking up a book and flipping through it. In the time it had taken Alfred to reach the door, he had slouched onto one of the leather seats and propped his feet up on the glossy mahogany table with an easy insolence. "Say Alf, get us a bottle or two... I could do with a drink. Oh, and so could the mayor."

"Thank you." Mayor Garcia's smile lessened slightly and he stood awkwardly behind the second chair, unsure whether to sit or stand. Alfred padded by him on silent feet, heading out of the study into parts unknown.

"Look at this book, Tony," Bruce said suddenly, tossing it absent-mindedly onto the coffee table. "You don't mind me calling you Tony, do you? Well, see, this book was my father's. Can't make heads or tails of it, but they say it's worth a couple thousand. He was into medicine, you know."

"Yes, Mr. Wayne, so I hear." The Mayor stifled an eye roll. "Do you mind if I have a seat?"

"Huh? Oh, sure." Bruce gestured at the empty seats and sat up, removing his feet from the coffee table. "Thanks for, uh, coming down on such short notice, Mayor. I'm sure you know about..." his eyes traveled up to the enormous painting hanging over the fireplace. "I wanted to set something up. A... memorial, if you will."

"Oh?"

Bruce Wayne leaned forwards, suddenly serious.

"I want to create an organization that will help people," he said. "In memory of my father... and my mother. And I want you to help me dedicate it to Gotham." He leaned back, smiling easily again. "One branch, you see, would give grants and work opportunities to, um, to scientists and drug developers and doctors. The Thomas Wayne Foundation. And then the other one, y'see, would be a charity organization. Soup kitchens, homeless shelters, clinics... the Martha Wayne Foundation. Sort of a fitting tribute to them both. Anyway, they tell me it's good PR. What do you think?"

"I think..." the Mayor leaned back, accepting a glass of wine from Alfred, who materialized silently to hand pour dark red liquid into crystal glasses and vanished. "I think it's exactly what Gotham needs. You see, Wayne, this comes at a very good time. At the moment, I-and a few friends- are working to renew hope in Gotham City. We're cleaning up the police force- yes, I'm serious, Mr. Wayne- and cracking down hard on the organized crime bosses... or what's left of them. I don't mind telling you, Mr. Wayne," he added with a chuckle, "between the Joker and the Batman, there aren't many mob bosses left in Gotham!"

Bruce laughed with him and poured the Mayor a second glass of wine.

"And we're working on cleaning up the city," Garcia went on. "Tearing down the condemned buildings in the Narrows, cleaning up the old park... but I'm sure you don't want to hear the details. It's part of my new campaign to bring hope back to Gotham. I'd be more than happy to attend your dedication. In fact, we're hosting a citywide memorial for Harvey Dent at the historic courthouse tomorrow. Why don't you come along and say a few words? I understand you two were great friends..."

"Uh... I... would be happy to," Bruce said, his face unreadable. "Yeah. I'll be there."

* * *

><p>Joker was bored. He could hardly moved, confined as he was in the straitjacket and ankle cuffs, his tiny, high-ceilinged cell was bereft of any furnishings save a mattress, thick wall paddings, and a security camera, the guard outside refused to listen to scar stories, and his nose was beginning to itch.<p>

"Uh... Batsy, if you're up there, I'd _really _like it if you'd show yourself," he called hopefully up to the shadowy ceiling. No reply. Joker sighed. Typical. He'd been locked up in the loony bin for what, nearly four weeks, and Batman _still _hadn't called or stopped in for a visit. Even a postcard would have been nice, just something to let him know the Bat was thinking about him...

"I gotta say, sweetheart, we're going to need to have a serious talk about our relationship."

Still no answer. Joker's voice bounced off the walls, a mocking echo. He coughed and listened to the sound fade away.

"Ho. Ho ho ho ho. Ho ho ha ha hee hee, heee hee hee ha ha hA HA AHAHAHAHAHAHA!"

The guard pounded on the door with what sounded like a metal billy club. If those even existed.

"Shut up, freak!" he bellowed. The Joker rolled his eyes.

"Look, uh, Sam- can I call you Sam? You look like a Sam. _Anyway, _if you really wanted me to, uh, _shut _up, you'd give me something to do. I'm not particular- you know me, easily amused. A, uh, a box of crayons, a TV, a steak knife... you know those are the best kind, right? Just dull enough to-"

Another metallic clang interrupted the Joker's speech.

"I said shut up!"

The Joker frowned and shifted himself onto his side, clambering to his feet- a more difficult task than it looked, in a straitjacket.

"Now, Sammy," he said in a warning tone, licking his scars reflexively, "Didn't your mommy and daddy ever teach you not to tell people to shut up? It's not _polite!" _

The guard's eyes widened as Joker approached the door, and he began backing away, his gun coming up to point at the door.

"What's going on here?"

The Joker rolled his eyes and ran a tongue over his cheek scars. He knew that voice. It was Dr. Jeremiah Arkham, the new director of Arkham and Joker's own personal psychiatrist- and by psychiatrist, he meant mind-numbingly boring old man who was too jaded to be shocked by Joker's stories and too pompous to admit "therapy" was going nowhere. The man reminded Joker of the institution he ran- a crumbling old wreck that might have been useful once, but was slowly slipping into decayed obsolescence.

"I was, uh, just wondering when you're going to let me out," Joker called out through the door slot. "You can't keep me in here forever, you know. Trying to contain chaos..." he chuckled, shaking his head. "Well, that's like trying to catch the Batman." He leaned in close to the slot and spoke in a near-whisper. "It's never gonna happen."

"Yes, well, Mr. Joker, we'll talk about that in our next-"

"I'm bored."

Dr. Arkham turned back, sliding thin glasses up his aged nose.

"As I mentiond in our last session, Mr. Joker, privileges will be granted for good behavior only. Those are the rules," he said sternly.

"So break them." Joker shrugged. "Who knows? Ya might like it, living without rules."

"Mmmm. I think not." Dr. Arkham's voice dripped condescension. "I'll see you in therapy, Joker."

"Oh, doc?" Joker called. "There's something I wanted to tell you."

Dr. Arkham sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, looking upwards as if pleading for more patience from a higher power.

"Yes?"

Joker stared out him from the door slot, all traces of humor gone from his face.

"Your, uh, straitjackets aren't tight enough."

Ten minutes later, the Joker found himself seated on a much-beaten couch in the recently-vacated rec room, wearing only handcuffs and ankle manacles. Dr. Arkham had been far too easy. Just a _few _threats of death and dismemberment to the hapless Sammy, and he'd caved like a cardboard box left out in the rain. Joker hummed cheerfully to himself and rocked back and forth on the couch. It was nice being out of his cell, even if there weren't any other inmates around to... entertain.

At least there was TV. Joker reached for the remote, careful to keep his hands in view of the watching guards, and pressed the power button.

"...live to the historic district, where Police Commissioner James Gordon-"

"Hello, Gordon," Joker muttered. "What're you up to this time?"

"-memorial for the fallen District Attorney, Harvey Dent," the newswoman rattled on. Joker couldn't help a giggle. This was going to be _good. _"Dent, nicknamed Gotham's White Knight, was tragically killed by a self-styled vigilante calling himself Batman."

The screen was filled with a picture of Harvey Dent from his campaigning days, standing on the steps of the courthouse and looking courageously into the distance. Joker snorted. He wished they'd show pictures of Dent _after _Joker's little... talk. Personally, he thought it was a great look for the guy.

"Today, on the one-month anniversary of Dent's death, Mayor Anthony Garcia and James Gordon will be leading a citywide memorial for Harvey Dent," the voice over continued, as a slideshow of campaign photos filled the screen one after another. "And here's Commissioner Gordon himself. Commissioner, what are you doing to track down Dent's murderer, the Batman?"

"Tell 'em, Gordy," Joker murmured.

The Police Commissioner shifted, obviously uncomfortable.

"Rest assured, we're doing everything in our power to make sure that what happened to Harvey Dent will never happen again," he said, looking into the camera.

"Yes, but what about your position on the Batman? Is there any information you can release to the public?" the woman persisted.

"All I'm authorized to say is that the Gotham City Police Department is fully committed to bringing Dent's murderer to justice, whomever he may be," Gordon replied. "I really can't discuss ongoing cases."

"Fair enough. And now the mayor is about to begin his speech. Welcome to the Harvey Dent Memorial Service."

There was a quick, blurry pan across the crowd to Mayor Garcia, ascending the steps of the courthouse to a wooden podium. Joker bit back a snigger- here came the part where the clueless mayor talked out of his hat while praising a guy he knew _nothing _about. Nothing worth knowing, anyway. He loved these types of speeches!

"We gather here today to commemorate the memory of Harvey Dent, who bravely gave his life in the line of duty one month ago today," the mayor began solemnly. "With me here are some of Dent's closest friends- Police Commissioner James Gordon, Captain Mark White, judge Dana Carillon, and billionaire Bruce Wayne. We come together today both to honor Dent's memory and to remind ourselves of what he stood for." The mayor paused for effect, and Joker couldn't help a giggle. If only they knew. _"Hope. _Harvey Dent had a dream, a hope for Gotham City- that it might one day be free from terror, free from crime, free from chaos and freaks like the Joker."

"Good luck with that one," snickered the Joker.

"And I am privileged to announce that his dream is not forgotten. Today marks the beginning of a new age for Gotham- a time when we the people will no longer tolerate corruption or coercion. With the help of these people gathered here today, I will personally begin an attack on corruption and on crime in our fair city. The police department will be subject to more oversight, and more funds will be diverted to the crime labs and evidence lockers to ensure that criminals like the Batman do not escape for lack of evidence. We will crack down hard on crime, with longer sentences for repeat offenders and harsher fines for corporate criminals, to make sure that organized crime does not regain its chokehold on this city. Together, we will work to bring hope back to Gotham!"

A cheer went up from the crowd. Joker could no longer restrain himself. He threw his head back and laughed and laughed, bringing the guards rushing back into the room with a straitjacket and sedative.

"Oh... oh... oh ho ho..." Joker gasped for breath, curly hair flopping in his eyes. "Take it from me, Mayor... this town has _happy days ahead!"_

* * *

><p>Many thanks to those who reviewed!<p>

Polyphoenix- I changed Lt. Flass because I'm a big fan of the Batman: Year One Flass, and I've always felt he was intended as a foil for Harvey Bullock- which the Batman:Begins Flass didn't quite convey. Don't worry, I don't plan to change any other pre-established details from Nolanverse... I just needed this for future character development with Bullock.


	3. A Business Proposal

The sun slipped towards the waters of Gotham Bay, bathing the ciy skyline in deep crimson and orange and gleaming white and hot on the silver steel skeleton of Bruce Wayne's latest expansion. For one moment, the future Wayne Foundation Building was divided cleanly in two, one side a blaze of warm light and the other cast into deep, liquid shadow. It was breathtaking.

Unfortunately, the beauty was lost on Johnny "Dancer" O'Leary, who merely wished the sun would hurry up and get out of his eyes. Shading his face with a hairy forearm, he turned away from the towering superstructure and let out a growl.

"Damn Gloria."

His companion, a slick, well-groomed man with impeccably trimmed facial hair and a pair of tinted sunglasses, looked up from where he stood against the pickup car.

"Aw, c'mon, Dancer," he said absent-mindedly. "I thought you like her."

"Yeah, til she took off with with half a week's pay," Dancer growled. "And my sunglasses. Hey Matches, lemme have those."

"No way, man. Get your own. 'Sides, the sun will be down in a few minutes."

"How am I supposed to keep an eye out with the blazin' sun in my eyes?" he grumbled.

"How am _I _supposed to keep an eye out with the blazin' sun in my eyes?" returned Matches.

With a disgruntled snort, Dancer turned away from his companion and scanned the street for cops, rival gang members, or... he swallowed.

"Hey Matches," he hissed, grabbing his friend's arm and pointing. "Over there, by the smokestack. Is that... is i..."

"Nah." Matches shook his head. "Just a shadow. Besides, you know he only works at night. You need to lighten up. Mr. Thorne has all of this under control." Then, cocking his head, "And there's the dropoff. Got the money? Good. I'll keep an eye out."

Grumbling under his breath, Dancer walked a few feet away from the pickup car and began to climb down a narrow set of rungs set in the concrete. Gotham Harbor was riddled with crooked, long-disused docks- disused, that is, until one of the rising mob bosses put it to good use. Dancer stepped off the ladder, brushed his hands together, and turned to see a small, unmarked speedboat floating towards the cement ledge.

"Dancer," the pilot called softly. "Got the cash?"

"Got the stuff?" Dancer called back.

"One sec," the pilot said. "I- oh, shit!"

A piercing siren split the silence, and the orange and red of the sunset was replaced by the blue and red of flashing lights. Dancer whirled around just in time to see a burly cop in a trench coat land on the concrete strip next to him.

"This is the police!" he bellowed, brandishing a badge. "Now put yer hands in the air!"

"Hey, look, what is this?" Dancer protested. "We're all paid up for this month!"

"Oh, are ya?" the cop sneered. "Well, maybe ya could tell us who yer payin' and save us both a lot of trouble!"

"Hey, hey, be cool!" Dancer spread his hands apart. "We can cut a deal... uh..."

"_Detective _Harvey Bullock. And there ain't gonna be a deal, not tonight, not ever. You're headed for the slammer, dirt bag!"

Above, crouched behind a reeking Dumpster and missing his sunglasses, "Matches" Malone shook his head and fingered one of his trademark matches.

"Mr. Thorne is not going to be pleased," he muttered.

* * *

><p>"What do you mean, they took him to jail?" Rupert Thorne bellowed, bringing his massive fist down the desk with a thump. "I don't know what we're paying for if things like this keep happening! That's the fourth delivery interrupted this week!" His rage fading slightly, the large mob boss leaned back into his chair and reached for a cigar. "Damn the mayor. Damn them all! It's that new campaign... cracking down hard on crime... Dancer won't talk, will he, Matches?"<p>

Across the desk, Matches chuckled nervously and pulled an old-fashioned sulfur match from his pocket, rubbing an index finger along its length out of long habit.

"Oh, no, sir, not Dancer," he said. "He's solid."

"Good. Good." Thorne ran a hand through his graying hair. "I don't know what to do anymore, Matches. Three of our best men iced by the Russians, four deliveries stopped and arrested- arrested, for God's sake- in the space of one week... what am I paying Flass for if he can't even drop a simple B&E?" He sighed heavily and reached for a cigarette lighter. "And we run a risk every time we operate after dark. I don't know what's happened to this town."

Matches was about to reply with something vaguely pacifying when there was a knock at the door. Thorne sighed and punched the intercom button on his desk.

"Who is it?"

"Ah- Arnold Wesker. Sir."

"Wesker?" Matches perked up his ears. "Ya mean, like, Joe Wesker's kid?"

"Yes. Unfortunately, he's inherited his mother's spine," Thorne grumbled. "Look, Matches, I appreciate your work. Go tell Johnny to start reorganizing for the next delivery. Say... Tuesday night at dusk at the Double or Nothing. And get yourself a decent suit, would you? You look like a walking tartan in that thing."

"Sure thing, Mr. Thorne. Should I send Wesker in?"

Rupert grimaced.

"I suppose."

Matches Malone nodded to his boss, picked up his hat, and left, not bothering to hold the door for Arnold Wesker on his way out. The balding accountant pushed the door open slightly, hesitant.

"Sir? May I come in?" he called timidly.

Stifling a sigh of annoyance, Thorne motioned him in.

"What is it this time, Wesker?" he snapped.

"W-well..." Arnold bit down on his lower lip, hesitating. "I... I just..."

"Say it!" boomed Thorne.

"Well, well, you see, it's not me so much as it is, as it is my friend," Wesker babbled nervously. "S-see, he's... he's really smart, and..."

Thorne placed a hand on the bridge of his nose and sighed. Not again. The thinly-disguised "friend" ploy was nothing new. He was only surprised that Wesker would actually have the guts to try it on him.

"...b-but he said to mention, um, just _mention _to you-"

_"Spit it out already!"_

Wesker snapped to attention, his Adam's apple bobbing as he gulped.

"I've noticed we're taking in losses right and left and my friend says he thinks he knows how to stop it and maybe even improve the business model and oh God Mr. Thorne please don't kill me!" he babbled.

Thorne blinked in surprise, frowning. So little Arnold Wesker wanted a place at the power table. That was... unexpected. His eyes narrowed and he pursed his lips thoughtfully. Normally, anyone who tried moving this far up the ranks so quickly would have a special place reserved for them in the Gotham landfill.

"It's-it's a good plan, Mr. Thorne!" Wesker went on desperately. "I looked it over and I-I think it might work!"

"What is it?" Thorne asked abruptly.

"Move out of trafficking and guns and go all out, take over the drug market before anyone else s-steps up and-" Wesker stammered and stuttered, his words falling over themselves in his their hurry to get out. "We set up a, a, a d-dummy, a dummy corporation! A fake, a, a, a front, you know, to take care of- of business as usual, and hit the competition hard! And then, then, you, sir, go completely legitimate and, and start climbing up, climbing the ladder... r-run for mayor or councilman, I don't know, district attorney! A-and if you get caught, well, sir, you won't because it's not you, it's the dummy corporation running the front a-and you'll be..." he gasped in breath and swallowed hard, "untouchable."

Rupert Thorne paused in the act of taking a drag of his cigar. Arnold Wesker climbing the power ladder... he'd never have expected it. Less still would he have expected that the plan would be workable or even feasible. But...

It was a good plan. No, more than that... it was a _new _plan, something that hadn't been tried for a very long time, something that would give the Thorne operation the element of surprise. Slowly, he turned to face towards the trembling man before his desk.

"That's very good, Arnold," he said thoughtfully. "Very good indeed."

* * *

><p>Sunset filled the high windows of Wayne Manor. The dying rays of the setting sun cast the whole of the harbor-view manor into alternating red and black. Bruce Wayne stood by the window and stared out over the harbor, watching a shadowy steamer make its way out to sea. He loved the Gotham Harbor at sundown. The sun sank down to meet the water, tinging the gold with red, and for once, the world seemed- perhaps not quiet at peace, but on its way.<p>

"It's beautiful," Alfred said.

"Yes," Bruce replied. "Yes, it is."

There was a brief moment of silence before Alfred spoke again.

"This campaign, restoring hope to Gotham... you really believe it, don't you?"

"Hope..." Bruce was silent for a moment. "Yes. 'All human wisdom is summed up in these two words... wait and hope.'"

"Zorro, sir?"

Bruce turned away from the harbor windows to face his butler.

"The Count of Monte Cristo. Close..."

"You know the Joker won't let this slip by," Alfred said. "If Gotham raises its hopes, he will attempt to crush them again."

Bruce sighed and shifted slightly.

"If this is your way of telling me that Gotham City still needs the Batman," he said, "then... you're right. But I intended Batman to inspire fear in criminals... and hope in the city. Things will get better. They are getting better. The crime rate is going down, Garcia's launching a community improvement plan, the Wayne Foundation will have its grand opening in a few days..." he laughed lightly. "I've been going over the list of potential grant recipients with Lucius. Guess there are a lot of doctors who want my money." Then, more seriously, "And Commissioner Gordon's making a sincere effort to clean up the police department. I heard he brought in half a dozen new faces, transfers... You were right, Alfred. Now is the time to heal. Just because we've lost... Dent... doesn't mean we've lost hope."

Alfred was about to reply when Bruce's phone rang. The billionaire pulled it out of his pocket, glanced at it, and sighed.

"Time for another round of socializing. At least it's for charity this time. I'd better go get dressed."

Alfred clapped a hand to his chest in surprise.

"Dear me! Do I take this to mean you will actually be attending a party after dark, and not running around the city in Kevlar pajamas?" he gasped. "This is a first!"

Bruce rolled his eyes but couldn't suppress a small smile.

"Hardee har har. Bruce Wayne needs some press time to avoid suspicion. And they're not pajamas."

"Oh, no, sir," Alfred said dryly. "Of course not."

* * *

><p>"...but I was all like, that's <em>soooo <em>old news, and she was like, no way! and I just can't see how anybody would possiby think..." the beautiful platinum blonde on Bruce's arm continued to prattle away, gesturing animatedly with a brightly-nailed hand.

Bruce smiled gamely and tried to look interested as he escorted his "date" up the marble steps of the luxurious Vreeland Hotel. At the stop, they paused for photographs, the blonde squealing in delight and waving for the pictures. Tomorrow, she would have her picture in half the tabloids of Gotham with the famous, handsome, _rich _Bruce Wayne, thus validating her own attractiveness and worth as a socialite. Status. It was all about status. Bruce sighed heavily and tried not to let his smile slip as he glided into the hotel with... whatever her name was... babbling on happily.

"Bruce Wayne! How delightful to see you again!"

"Brucie! I thought I'd _never _catch up with you!"

"Where have you been hiding, Bruce? There's someone here you've _got _to meet!"

Bruce smiled and waved as he passed each group of sparkling, giggling girls in long, satiny evening gowns and enough jewelry to make their every hand movement flash and glitter. The Vreeland Hotel ranked among the oldest- and most luxurious- hotels in Gotham. With a glossy marble floor, half a dozen ornate crystal chandeliers, floor-to-ceiling showcase windows overlooking the business district, and a perfectly trained, perfectly coordinated waitstaff of over one hundred, the Vreeland Hotel was not a light expenditure. Bruce noted that the refreshments tables, in addition to their usual load of clear, glimmering glasses and long trays of perfectly sculpted h'ors d'ouevres, bore a row of elaborate ice sculptures, a stunningly ornate chocolate fountain, and a long table runner of red velvet trimmed with gold culminating in a stylized coat-of-arms. Whoever was hosting the party, he- or she- had clearly spared no expense.

"Here, Brucie! To us!"

A champagne glass was shoved into his hand, and he smiled bravely and clinked glasses with his date.

"To us," he muttered, downing the glass and throwing a longing glance at the windows. Outside, the night had enveloped Gotham, transforming into a blaze of city lights on velvety darkness. It was perfect.

"Bruce? Brucie?"

He forced himself to drag his attention back to his date, who was frowning up at him and fingering her glass.

"I _almost _thought you weren't listening!" she scolded. "I was trying to introduce you to our host. This is Arnold Stromwell."

The name faintly set off warning bells in Bruce's mind, but he nodded politely and offered a hand to the man. Stromwell, a broad, weathered man in a slick Armarni suit, nodded back with a faint sneer. Bruce tried not to narrow his eyes, but he was sure he had seen Stromwell somewhere before. The man's face had a certain hardness to it, a certain glint in his eyes... the fading scar peeping out of his stiff white collar and slight bulge in his left hip pocket did nothing to allay Bruce's suspicion.

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Wayne," he said in a resonant baritone. "I've heard a lot about you..." Somehow, he managed to make it sound as if that was not a good thing. "Quite the place you've got now, or so I hear." There was just the slightest pause on the word _now, _and Bruce laughed to cover his blush.

"Yeah, nothing like a good rebuilding to spruce up a place," he joked.

"Mm. It must be nice, inheriting so much money," Stromwell replied. "Some of us have to work hard for our livings."

"Well, you've obviously done well for yourself," Bruce said. Stromwell raised an eyebrow coldly. "I mean, not everyone can afford to rent out the Vreeland," said Bruce, nodding around the lavish ballroom. "And all the proceeds going to... isn't is the Harvey Dent Memorial Hospital?"

"Gotham City Children's Hospital," Stromwell corrected him. "And yes, Mr. Wayne... I have done well for myself. For now, at least."

With a slight nod to Bruce, he excused himself from the conversation.

"Charming fellow," Bruce commented under his breath.

"Oh, don't be that way," the blonde woman said in a teasing voice. "Stromwell might act stuffy, but he's-"

Her sentence was rudely interrupted by the sound of five floor-to-ceiling windows shattering in unison, followed by the explosive report of gunfire. Screams filled the air as the guests dropped to the floor, covering their heads and looking wildly for the source of the shootings. Bruce had already spotted it. Near the ballroom entrance, five men in waitstaff uniforms were slowly advancing, each carrying an impressively large automatic weapon.

"All right, people, there's no need for alarm!" one of them shouted, waving his gun in the air. "We're not here to hurt anyone... just looking for a few friendly donations. Cash, gold, jewelry... oh, and don't forget the credit cards. Your money's all good here, folks! Oh, and, uh, let's not have any cell phones. The first phone we see, we're opening fire. At random."

Bruce grimaced, his hand freezing in his pocket. If only there were some way to slip out...

"All right!" The leader produced a black plastic trash bag, opened it, and waved it at the nearest lady. "Drop them in... and don't forget the jewelry, ladies."

Reluctantly, the party guests began dropping their valuables into the trash bag. Bruce backed away slowly through the crowd, one eye on the shattered windows. If he could only reach them...

"Going somewhere, Mr. Wayne?"

The hot muzzle of a fully automatic rifle pressed gently into the side of Bruce's suitcoat, and he froze. He stared at the weapon, trying not to think about how easy it would be to snatch it from the robber's grasp before he had time to react, break it down into parts and toss them aside, twist the felon's arm behind his head and pin him against the floor in a painful headlock...

"I, uh..." Bruce swallowed. "No. Sorry."

Slowly, he reached into his coat, produced his checkbook and wallet, and dropped them into the garbage bag.

"Much better. And now, we'll be going." Slowly, the robbers backed up to the emergency exit, weapons still pointed at the guests. The leader paused for a moment, smiled, and aimed into the crowd. "Happy birthday, Mr. Stromwell!"

There was a shot and a scream, and the burglars were gone.


	4. Scene of the Crime

Bruce Wayne didn't wait for the police to arrive. As soon as the thieves were out of the door and the ballroom erupted into chaos, he turned and sprinted towards the windows. Throwing a quick glance at Stromwell, who was moaning in agony and clutching his leg, he pushed his way past shrieking women and their equally shaken boyfriends, and headed for the service elevator. He already knew where he was headed- his ultra fast, ultra light Lamborghini Murcielago LP640, which could take him to the Manor in under four minutes. Three if he caught the light on 14th.

Exactly three and a half minutes later, he pulled to a stop in front of the manor, leaped out, and sprinted to the door, nearly colliding with Alfred on his way in.

"Why- excuse me, Master Bruce!" The butler sounded almost offended. "What are you doing home at this hour? You ought to have a good four more hours of partying, before-"

"Later, Alfred," Bruce replied, tossing him the keys. "Here. I don't get home for another two hours."

"Very good, sir," the butler replied dryly. "And where shall I park the car you have yet to come home in?"

But Bruce was out of hearing range.

* * *

><p>"Let's move, people!" Commissioner Gordon shouted. "There's been a robbery at the Vreeland Hotel! I want Fields, Jones, Parker, and Stryke! Get the up team rousted out of analysis and let's get going!"<p>

"What about Flass?" someone called.

"Forget Flass, I'm taking Bullock." Glancing up at the bulky detective, Commissioner Gordon quipped, "Don't worry. It's a light case. Only one casualty."

Harvey Bullock took an enormous bite out of his powdered donut and wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve.

"What're we waiting for?" he said around a mouthful of pastry. "Let's go- ummph- catch those scum bags responsible!"

On the way to the Vreeland Hotel, Bullock managed to polish off his donut and finish one and a half more, all without the aid of a napkin. Commissioner Gordon glanced at the man in the passenger seat of the cruiser and shook his head. He still didn't know what to make of the man- a bulky, scruffy, slovenly detective who had one of the best case records in the NYPD, who looked like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man in a trenchcoat but could take out a buffed gangster half his age with a swift headbutt, who didn't bother to chew with his mouth closed but threw an attempted bribe back into its owner's face with a curse.

Then the squad car rounded the street corner, and he got a clear view of what was happening in front of the Vreeland Hotel. The semi-darkness was lit up with brief, repeated camera flashes, two white vans with black lettering were parked just inside the cul-de-sac, and no less than three cameramen were setting up with their various news anchors.

"Who called the press?" Bullock wondered out loud.

"I don't know. Let's get inside and tape it off," Gordon replied grimly, reaching for the door handle.

A blinding flash of light caught him as he stepped out of the squad car, and he was hit with a barrage of rapid, enunciated questions.

"Commissioner Gordon! What are your thoughts on the reported shooting inside?"

"What do you have to say about the average response time of the police department?"

"Any truth to the rumors that it may be the work of organized crime?"

"Commissioner! What's your stance on the Stromwell shooting?"

"No comment, no comment," Gordon said firmly, pulling Bullock behind him through the gleaming revolving door. "As of right now, this is a restricted crime scene. All cameras must remain outside."

This was met by an increased uproar in protests and shouted questions.

"Ya heard the Commissioner!" bellowed Bullock, his bulk filling the doorway as he turned to face the assembled press. "Cameras outside, questions later!"

Gordon didn't know whether to laugh or sigh. He knew he would be reading about this in tomorrow's paper.

"Come on, Bullock," he said, and turned to the open the heavy doors of the grand ballroom.

Halfway across Gotham, a black, nondescript sedan careened through the narrow, winding streets, bouncing along potholed streets and barely missing the odd vagrant or prostitute in its wild career. Inside, the passenger glanced nervously in his rearview mirror. No cops yet, but that had to change soon. He reached for his cell phone and punched in the number.

"Sir?... Yes, it's finished. Rocky estimates at least half a million, maybe more if we can fence it... no, he didn't cause trouble. Yes, sir. I understand, sir. Thank you."

The driver looked over at his companion.

"What'd he say?"

The passenger smirked.

"He said-"

CRASH! The entire roof dented itself inward and the vehicle swerved wildly as something large and heavy descended onto the car with all the grace of a ton of bricks.

"What the hell was that?" one of the men in the back seat shouted.

"How should I know?" the driver shouted back. "Get your- aaaah!"

The driver's reply was cut off by the sound of his side window shattering, followed by a black, gauntleted arm seizing him by the collar and dragging him roughly outside the car. The men still inside the vehicle panicked, and for four seconds the car fairly shed criminals as they leaped out the doors, out the windows, and fled the scene as fast as they could.

"Who are you working for?"

The driver's eyes bulged with terror as he found himself face-to-face with a man-sized, demonic-looking bat... man. The creature had his collar in a crushing grip, easily dangling him over the wrecked car, and addressed him in a raspy growl that he swore he would hear in his nightmares.

"Who are you working for?" the Batman growled. The pressure on the crook's windpipe increased, and he clawed desperately for air.

"Help... me!"

And then- oh, _God, _the creature was shifting his grip on him, was going to do something, and the driver let out a long scream of terror as the Batman actually began to fly away, carrying him off into the night. The street below dropped away at an alarming rate, and he screamed again and again because, sweet Mary in heaven, he was being abducted by a demon of the night.

* * *

><p>Batman dropped the crook onto one of the narrow ledges which adorned the buildings of Gotham historic district. The man shuddered convulsively and covered his eyes; Batman turned to retrieve his grapple and affix it to a nearby gargoyle. Using Lucius' sonic vision, it hadn't been hard to locate the only car within ten minutes' drive carrying six men with guns and headed away from the Vreeland Hotel at nearly twice the posted speed limit.<p>

Turning back to his prey, Batman seized the unfortunate crook by the lapels and dragged him back up to face him.

"I won't ask again!" he growled.

The man gasped, rolled his eyes, wept, pleaded... but did _not _disclose any information on his employer. Grimly, Batman looped one end of the grappling rope around the man's legs and tossed him over the ledge. There was a long scream of terror, followed by gasping and whimpering as the rope jerked taut. Batman took the rope and hauled it in quickly, hand-over-hand.

"Again," he growled, dangling the man at waist height above the ledge. "My arm's getting tired."

"I- I- no, nobody, I wasn't working for anyboDYYYYYYY!"

Batman waited a bit longer this time before reeling in the terrified criminal.

"WHO ARE YOU WORKING FOR!"

"Ah... ah... I don't know! I don't know!"

Batman glared at him- partly for intimidation's sake and partly out of disgust. Lies. The crook actually thought he could lie to the Batman and get away with it.

"AAAAAAAAAAAH!"

Batman hauled the criminal up and seized the back of his head violently.

"LIAR!"

"O-okay," the man gasped, struggling to stay coherent. "I... I... I'm working for someone new... the Black Hand... honest to God..."

"Who are they?"

"I don't know... I swear... they contacted us over the phone... wanted us to shoot up Stromwell's party... warn him off... five grand apiece, seven if we iced him... that's all I know, honest to God!"

"Why Stromwell?"

"He never told me!" the man shouted, then quickly amended, "He was Falcone's rival, he's making a killing in the drug market with Falcone gone! I... I think the Black Hand was gonna move in!"

Batman summoned one of his fiercest scowls and narrowed his eyes menacingly.

"Don't let me see your face again," he growled, and dropped the man off the ledge, slowing his descent about halfway down and depositing him neatly on the ground in a cowering, whimpering heap. He turned and shot his grappling gun towards a nearby building, swinging down to street level in one continuous arc. Leaping onto the waiting Batpod, Batman gunned the engine and took off down the street, cape flaring behind him.

"Alfred," he growled into the cowl's intercom. "I need information on one Stromwell, a former Falcone rival. Can you get it?"

"Right away, sir."

* * *

><p>"So let me get this straight, ma'am," Harvey Bullock grunted, shifting his considerable weight from foot to foot. "Six guys walk into the ballroom carrying guns, shoot a couple of rounds into the windows to get everyone's attention, and proceed to rob you blind. Then, on their way out, they go outta their way to identify and shoot the host of the party, a Mr. Arnold Stromwell, in the kneecap."<p>

"That's right," sniffed the woman, a beautiful blonde starlet whose face had looked much better before she started crying. "Bastards. They even took my ruby-and-diamond necklace, and it was a family heirloom! Thank God I had it insured last year..."

"Okay. That'll be all, ma'am," Bullock nodded. "Whattya think, Commish?"

"I think we better have a talk with Stromwell," replied Commissioner Gordon. "He's..." Gordon paused in midsentence. Behind Bullock, there had been a quick movement in the shadows nearest the shattered windows, a flash of something black and flowing... "Bullock. I want you to follow Stromwell to the hospital. Interview him as soon as they have him stabilized; see if he knows of anyone who might be gunning for him."

"You got it, Commish."

As soon as Bullock was out of sight, Jim Gordon glanced around the room warily and carefully made his way to the shadowy corner nearest the broken windows. If nothing else, he had to warn Batman to get out of-

"Good evening, Commissioner."

Jim jumped despite himself. He should have seen that coming. Just outside the window, the Batman hung upside-down, suspended from... something, probably a rope of some sort.

"Don't you ever get tired of that?" Gordon complained, edging closer to his black-clad guest. "I was wondering if you might show up here."

"Arnold Stromwell is a rising mob boss," rasped the Batman. "He moved in from Chicago just after the Joker took down the mob, and has been cleaning up in drugs. The shooting was meant as a warning. There's a new player in town calling himself the Black Hand."

"Black Hand? I haven't heard anything about-"

"Neither has anyone else."

"You think this was Black Hand's premiere?" Gordon asked.

"Something of the sort."

Gordon scratched his head.

"Well, that's just wonderful."

"I need some of the rounds fired."

"I don't know-"

The sound of thudding, heavy footsteps made Gordon freeze.

"Get out of here," he whispered to the Batman, and the black-masked vigilante dropped out of sight.

"Commish," came the low gravel of Harvey Bullock's voice. "You won't believe this, but..." he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "I think the Batman's hanging around here somewhere?"

"What?" Commissioner Gordon's heart jumped into his mouth. "What makes you think that?"

Harvey Bullock grinned widely and winked at him.

"I think we just captured his wheels!"

Gordon's eyes widened.

"Show me."

* * *

><p>Batman dropped noiselessly from the ledge and allowed himself to fall nearly the entire way to the street before opening his cape with a loud whoosh. Bad idea. The sound immediately attracted the attention of two police officers who had most definitely <em>not <em>been in the narrow alley when Batman left it.

"Stop! Police!" one bellowed, as two dark shadows came racing towards Batman. There was an audible click from the other silhouette, and Batman ducked instinctively as the round streaked just over his head. Ordinarily, and officially, the police did not shoot without warning the suspect. But cop killers in Gotham City got no such treatment.

Another bullet slammed into the thick Kevlar padding on Batman's chest- the symbol was doing its job, provided an easy and well-protected target- and Batman leaped forward before either police officer could shoot again. The fight was over in seconds. Swinging one arm into the stomach of the first cop, he snatched the gun from the second and send him reeling with a heavy kick. While two of Gotham's finest spluttered for breath and clutched their ribcages, Batman leaped over them and set off at a run down the alley. He had left the Batpod parked behind an overflowing Dumpster, out of sight of the main road and close to two seperate escape routes should the police show up. In theory, no one should have reason to check behind the Dumpster in a seemingly dead-end alley, and thus no one should have discovered the souped-up motorcycle.

One glance around the corner, however, told Batman that that was exactly what had happened. The alleyway was lit up with flashlights, and he could make out five- no, six- figures in SWAT team uniforms standing around the Batpod and speaking into handheld radios.

"...appears to be some sort of motorcycle, sir!"

"Positive ID, the Batman's... uh... vehicle."

"Yes sir! Send Alpha and Gamma team right away, reason to suspect the Batman may be-"

Batman leaped into the midst of the SWAT team, placing his hands on the Batpod's seat and swinging his legs in a wide arc, sending them all reeling. Before they could recover, he gunned the engine- and was suddenly assaulted from three different directions at once. Mentally thanking Ra's al Ghul for the preparation, Batman lashed out with a series of rapid karate moves. The first man he hit slumped to the ground, out cold; the other two went flying into the nearby Dumpster. Two down, four to go. An explosion of gunfire alerted Batman to the presence of more police, now swarming in one end of the alley.

He would have to run for it, then. Taking a deep breath, he swatted the officer guarding the Batpod's front tire out of the way, gunned the engine, and took off down the narrow alley, pursued by the sound of shouts, cursing, and gunfire. And then a third officer, a heavyset man in a trenchcoat and old-fashioned fedora, stepped into the other end of the alley and raised his gun.

This was headed nowhere good, fast.

"Freeze, Bat!" the trenchcoated officer shouted.

There was only one thing to do, and he had to do it quickly, before the police surrounded the Batpod again. Batman grabbed his grappling gun, shot it the side of the nearest building, and lifted himself upwards. There was a series of pops in the alley, and several bullets whistled by his torso, but missed. Easily pulling himself onto the roof of the skyscraper, Batman glanced down into the alley, making sure the police were clear of the Batpod.

"Sorry, Lucius," he muttered, and reached for a button on his belt.

The explosion rocked the alley, scattering the police officers and sending a scorching wave of heat up to the rooftops. Batman turned his back on the scene and began to run.

* * *

><p>"He got away?"<p>

Harvey Bullock looked deeply unhappy as he held the ice pack to his forehead.

"Sorry, Commish. I really thought we had 'im... next thing I know, he blows his own cycle up," he said. "Flew straight up inta the air, I saw it with my own two eyes!"

Commissioner Gordon nodded, keeping his expression even and mildly disappointed.

"It's all right, Detective. We'll get him next time. What about the... uh... vehicle?"

"Oh, that. We doused it down real quick, got the fire put out..." Bullock sighed and removed the ice pack to prod a large purplish-black bruise with a forefinger. "Sent it down to forensics for a rush job. We almost got 'im..." he shook his head and winced. "Still want me ta go after Stromwell tonight?"

Commissioner Gordon was about to reply when the door to his office burst open, and a young, somewhat pretty intern from the lab rushed in with a clipboard. He raised an eyebrow. Normally, the Gotham City Police Department's crime laboratory took anywhere from a few days to a few months to process evidence, depending on how much evidence was available, how high-profile the case might be, and who could stand to benefit from pigeonholing the reports. A few "special cases" had been rushed through in the past- the pipe bomb fragments from an elementary school bombing, the bent toothpick from a would-be political assassin, a certain playing card taped to a murdered Batman look-alike. But the lab had obviously pulled out all the stops to analyze the wreck of the Batpod in such a short amount of time. Apparently, catching a cop-killing vigilante was a cause every technician could appreciate.

"Sir, we're still working," the intern said, before Gordon could voice his surprise. "But we did manage to recover most of the... um... motorcycle's internal computer."

"Computer?" Bullock echoed. "That thing's got a computer in it?"

"Well, sir, most vehicles do nowadays," the intern replied. "This one is substantially more, um, extensive than most, and it's heavily encrypted. Captain Adams says it's military grade or higher."

"So can you decode it?" Gordon asked.

"No, sir, we can't," said the intern. "That's what I was coming to talk to you about. Captain Adams wants to request an inter-office loan from the NYPD... they've got an expert cryptographer, one of the best in the nation- actually, one of the best in the world-"

"Can he decode it?"

"We think so," the intern nodded. Gordon felt Bullock's eyes shift to him.

"All right," Gordon replied, holding out his hand for the clipboard. "I'll sign the temporary transfer request. How soon can we get Mr..." he scanned the page until he found the name... "Nashton down here?"

"Leave that ta me," Bullock put in suddenly. "I know a guy in Transfers. We- I mean, they- can get the paperwork through in two, maybe three hours, tops."

"Good," Gordon said, feeling a slight sinking feeling in his stomach. "And Bullock, you can have the rest of the night off after that. Go get your head looked at."

Detective Bullock shook his head slowly.

"No way, Commish," he said. "My head ain't that bad. This guy killed, what, two cops and three civilians? If it means puttin' this perp behind bars, I'd be more than happy to stay th' night."

Gordon winced and covered it with a smile.

"That's the spirit, Detective."

* * *

><p>Reviews guarantee a faster update... (:<p> 


	5. No Going Back

"Tell me, Mr. Joker, do you feel the need to entertain?"

The Joker growled unintelligibly, his eyes roving over the wall behind Dr. Arkham. No, Doctor, I feel the need to kill! Only twenty minutes into today's session, and what little patience he had was already worn thin.

"Tell me, uh, _doc, _do you like prying into people's minds?" he asked. "I mean, really, setting aside all that... helping the poor lost souls of Gotham, humanitarian comforter nonsense... I just gotta know... do you _enjoy _it?"

Dr. Arkham shifted imperceptibly.

"Now, Mr. Joker, we're focusing on you in this session," he said.

"'Cause I gotta say, I'm really starting to wonder," the Joker continued. "At _first, _you know, I had you pegged as a glory hound. But now... maybe I'm thinking I underestimated you." He dropped his voice to very low, very serious pitch and looked straight into Arkham's eyes. "Maybe... you're a sadist."

"I... hardly think that possible," Arkham replied in stifling tones. "Let's move on to another topic."

He reached for a stack of cards on his clipboard, and the Joker watched with little-feigned interest as the good doctor held up a Rorschach test. It wasn't the first time Joker had seen them, and he knew it wouldn't be the last.

"Now, Mr. Joker, I'm sure you're familiar-"

"A bat," the Joker replied.

"What?"

"The, uh, Rorschach tests. Designed to further, uh, _facilitate _your _treatment _program. You know," Joker gave the doctor a knowing look. "Ripping apart people's minds? And I see a bat."

Dr. Arkham blinked, looked at the card curiously, and moved it to the back of the stack. Before he could speak, the Joker raised his eyebrows and nodded pointedly- having his arms caught in the straitjacket forced him to improvise- and said,

"It's a bat too."

"I... see," Dr. Arkham said. "And are they all bats?"

"Well, I don't know yet," the Joker replied. "I haven't... _seen_ them yet."

"Well, why don't you take a look?" Arkham all but snapped, and held up the next one. "What do you think? Is this a bat?"

The Joker shook his head, leaning back in his chair and licking his scars reflexively.

"No... no, no, no, no, _that's... _that's you, Doc."

Dr. Arkham glanced at the card, a large, featureless splash of black ink, and repeated, incredulous,

"That looks like me?"

"That looks like all they'll ever find of you once I'm through," the Joker replied simply. "See, you can even see the little, uh, splatter marks on the outside... I think, uh, you fell and couldn't get _up_."

Dr. Arkham's faded eyes widened and he leaned away from the Joker, his mouth opening and closing silently, like a goldfish's.

"_Don't _tell me the session's over yet," Joker said, with just enough growl in his voice to let the good doctor know it was an order. "I wanna talk with someone. I wanna... I wanna _talk _with someone. Someone..." he ran his tongue over his scars and glanced at the wall as if considering, "...like _me."_

"I... I can't do that," Dr. Arkham muttered. "It's impossible. Out of the question!"

_"Really?" _Joker sighed and shook his head. "Really, doc, you underestimate yourself. You can arrange it. I _know _you can. You're just... low on self esteem, that's all." He leaned in again, and couldn't help a harsh smile. "Take it from someone who knows, doc, you... really... need to _lighten up. _Why so _serious _all the time?"

Arkham swallowed hard and stood up.

"I'll... see what I can do," he said in a low voice.

* * *

><p>Two of Arkham's burly orderlies half-walked, half-dragged the Joker across the linoleum floor and deposited him unceremoniously on the rec room couch. Joker couldn't restrain a giggle as they retreated, throwing wary glances over their shoulders. The Arkham orderlies were <em>fun! <em>Maybe not as much fun as the Batman, but... he tried to shrug in the straitjacket and found it more difficult than it appeared... they had their moments. He glanced around the room- they'd been thoughtful enough to clear it out just for him- and smiled to himself. Oh yessss... he saw opportunities everywhere.

There was a worn felt-topped billiards table, a table surrounded by chairs with puzzles, chess, and Chutes & Ladders set up on it, a ping-pong table with _paddles _just waiting to be used, a bookshelf of ragged, mainly cover-less books, a muted television flashing the latest tragic news, and- most importantly- several decks of cards sitting on the games table.

He couldn't wait to get his hands on _those. _

Just then, the sound of the heavy door swinging open heralded the return of Heckle and Jeckle. Joker twisted in the straitjacket and grinned maliciously. The good doctor had been as good as his word. The orderlies were escorting a new patient in, someone shackled to a wheelchair, someone with loose, messy brown hair... someone the Joker had seen on television quite a few times before starting his relationship with Gotham.

Jonathan Crane, also known as the Scarecrow. Joker knew he'd been director of Arkham Asylum before going to work for international terrorist Ra's al Ghul, weaponizing a terror-inducing hallucinogen, and releasing breathable fear into the Narrows. Which meant... Joker licked his scars, eyes gleaming... Johnny boy had slipped off the deep end just like him. There was just something about the man that intrigued him.

Plus, he was technically the first freak in Gotham, and that had to count for something.

"Hellloooo there, Johnny," Joker crooned as ex-Doctor Crane was wheeled up next to him. "Maybe you've heard of me... I don't know..."

The man was drugged, that was plain. His eyes- blue, the Joker noted- had that hazy, in-a-world-of-my-own glimmer that was probably attributable to a heavy dose of tranquilizers. He cocked his head slowly and stared at Joker with a detached, unblinking gaze.

"I... I've seen you..." he said, words slurring a little. "I've seen you before..."

Joker licked his scars and smiled.

"Well," he said, "they don't let me have the paint in here. I'm sure you would recognize me then, wouldn't you..." he patted Jonathan's cheek comfortingly, and the self-proclaimed Master of Fear blinked and summoned up a look that was somewhere between a glare, a look of horror, and an irritable scowl. Joker chuckled. Oh yes, Johnny was going to be fun. "Let me give you a reminder," Joker went on, and stretched his mouth into a grin, fighting the deep scar tissue. "Or maybe... I could just tell you a _joke."_

Crane blinked and stared.

"I've seen... you..." he repeated. "You're beautiful..."

Joker's eyebrows went up.

"Not that I'm not _flattered _and everything," he said, "But I'm really... well, I'm already spoken for."

Unfortunately, Crane was too drugged to even look embarrassed.

"Your face..." he slurred. "Fear... I've seen you work..." he shifted slightly, blinking in mild annoyance at the restraints. "Like... like I said... beautiful..."

_"Ohhhhhh," _Joker nodded. "And that explains everything. Liked the hostage tapes, did you, Johnny?" he added softly.

"I-I saw Batman."

That piqued Joker's interest.

_"Really?"_

"He's..." Crane's expression shifted to one of mild alarm. "Black..."

"Don't you mean _African-American?" _Joker sniggered. "And he's not, ya know. But he's... oh, he's beautiful. You think I'm good..." he shook his head slowly. "You should see _him _work."

Crane's eyes went to the television.

"I saw him," he repeated.

And, to Joker's delight, the ex-doctor was right. A red-headed reporter chick was looking at the camera seriously while shaky, blurry police camera footage played over and over again in a cutaway in the corner. Batman leaped down into an alley- into the middle of a SWAT team- and began throwing punches right and left. Gotham's finest went flying. Joker chortled.

"Get 'im, Batsy," he muttered. "Bam! Pow! Whack!" Then, glancing over his shoulder, "Could we, uh, get some sound on here?" He raised his eyebrows and nodded. The sound for the television abruptly turned on.

"-last time Batman will evade the police, says Mayor Anthony Garcia," the reporter said. "Police Commissioner James Gordon had no comment last night, but Gotham PD's Lieutenant Flass had this to say."

Flass's clean-shaven, perpetually cheerful face filled the screen.

"Oh yes, we're close to catching the Batman," he nodded. "We even captured his, um, motorcycle. Or what's left of it. The onboard computer-"

"Flass! That's enough!" came a familiar off-screen shout, and Joker giggled. Gordy, Gordy, Gordy... still trying to suppress the truth.

"In other news, billionaire Bruce Wayne announced the creation of a new charitable organization, the Wayne Foundation," the reporter continued, as the camera shifted to Bruce Wayne's cocky profile. "Mayor Garcia declared it a part of his new 'Bring Hope Back to Gotham' campaign, and attended the induction of the Thomas Wayne Foundation's first research grant recipient, along with Gotham notables Commissioner Gordon, Wayne Industries CEO Lucius Fox, socialites Veronica Vreeland, Leslie O'Hara, and Selina Kyle, Dr. Thomas Elliott, and rising businessman Rupert Thorne. Congratulations to neurotechnician Jervis Tetch, formerly of Warsbury, England. Tetch will receive a five-year contract with Wayne Enterprises to conduct research in a personal laboratory, as well as a substantial yearly salary. And congratulations to local artist Ava Tasha Rawal, who received a hefty endowment from the Martha Wayne Foundation. At the ceremony, Mayor Garcia said-"

Instantly, the screen was filled with Garcia's intense, oh-so-sincere gaze.

"The last few months have been hell on Gotham City," he said. "Now, with the help of concerned, compassionate citizens like Bruce Wayne and dedicated police officers like James Gordon, we will rebuild. We will bring hope back to Gotham."

Thunderous applause from the audience. The Joker cackled.

"They... they're wrong..." Crane put in.

"Right you are, Johnny-boy," Joker sniggered. "Couldn't have put it better myself."

"I know you..." the ex-psychiatrist insisted, and then, with an unsettling twitch, "There's... no going back..."

"Don't you know it," muttered the Joker.

On the screen, the Mayor beamed and nodded to the crowd on all sides.

"That's right," he said. "We will bring hope back to Gotham City."

Joker shook his head, licking his scars reflexively.

"Hope..." he sneered.

"Fear..." Crane muttered.

"Right. See, Johnny, you get it, more than the Mayor or Batsy ever will," Joker nodded. "There really is... _no_ going back."

* * *

><p>"Bruce Wayne."<p>

The billionaire turned, flashing his world-famous smile and extending a hand while the cameras flashed.

"That's me. And you are...?"

"Rupert Thorne."

Bruce raised his eyebrows slightly. As with Arnold Stromwell, there was something vaguely unsettling about Thorne, something... sleazy. The businessman wore a perfectly-tailored black suit with a velvety red rose in his lapel. Though he was certainly not slim, his extra poundage looked more like muscle than fat, and his face had all the wear and tear of a seasoned... boss.

"I like what you're doing, Mr. Wayne," Thorne said in a deep baritone, clasping Wayne's hand in a firm shake. "In fact, I'm so impressed that I'm starting a charitable foundation of my own."

"Really?" Bruce flipped hair out of his eyes and smiled for the cameras. "I... don't be offended, but I didn't know you had a corporation."

Thorne chuckled.

"Don't be," he said. "You could say it's a fairly new enterprise. Thorne Trading & Stocks Incorporated. I'm the president, naturally."

"And you're starting a... charitable organization?" Bruce queried.

"More like a research foundation, similar to what you're doing," Thorne nodded. "Environmental preservation... you get the idea."

"Ah. Well, I'm throwing a party," said Wayne. "The official launching of the Foundation... day after tomorrow, at Wayne Manor."

"I'll be there," Thorne replied. And he turned away, nodding affably to Mayor Garcia as the press closed in, cameras flashing.

Across town, in one of the lavishly furnished apartments of the Fortuna Building, Joey "Mugsy" Lucca sat nervously on a plush velvet couch and watched St. Christopher burn. The saint's printed face turned brown, darkened to black, and finally curled into flowering flame as the fire licked at the paper.

"Now," the bruiser across from "Mugsy" grunted. "Repeat after me. If I betray my family or my friends, I and my soul will burn in hell like this saint burns now."

"If I betray my family or my friends, I and my soul will burn in hell like this saint burns now," Mugsy repeated dutifully.

"Swear it!"

"I swear it."

"Now gimme your hand."

Wonderingly, Mugsy proffered his right hand. The man opposite him took it in his own massive hands, dwarfing it in comparison. There was a sharp, unexpected prick to his right index finger, and Mugsy drew in his breath sharply.

"Congratulations, Mugsy," the man said, relaxing. "You made your bones. This, and the Vreeland shooting... You're a made man, now."

Charles "Rhino" Daly grinned and leaned back, nodding at his newly-made fellow mafioso. An absolutely massive man, he stood nearly seven feet tall and had the approximate build of a bull rhinoceros- hence the nickname. Mugsy had known Daly for years as a fellow enforcer under Carmine Falcone, but had lost sight of his friend after Falcone's meeting with a certain burlap-clad ex-psychiatrist and the disintegration of the Falcone empire. A little under two months ago, Rhino had reappeared and offered Mugsy work under a small-time mob boss, mainly smuggling drugs and small-time prostitution rings. The "induction ceremony" was unexpected, to say the least. But one didn't say no when asked if you wanted to join a family, no matter how small they were.

"Hey, Rhino," Mugsy said. "No offense, but... where's the boss? I mean, I've heard about the, uh, rite 'n' everything, but... well..."

"Relax, Mugsy," Rhino smiled. "Sure, maybe we ain't playing it exactly straight at the moment, but there's always time. You'll meet Mr. Scarface sure enough." And he winked broadly.

"Okay, okay," Mugsy said, unable to contain himself. "But is it Thorne? He's the boss, ya know..."

That earned him a heavy backhand from the massive brute. Rhino scowled down at him.

"What did I just tell you?" he growled. "No, Thorne ain't the boss. He's just a puppet. The Black Hand ain't a game, you know."

"But who's Mr. Scarface?" persisted Mugsy.

"He's a genius," Rhino said. "And for now, we gotta answer to Mr. Thorne. Act right, do everything straight... but you remember, you swore omerta now. Your loyalties are to the family. To Mr. Scarface. It's gotta come before your real family, before your girlfriend, before your church, everything. Got it?"

"Of course," Mugsy said. "Yeah. Of course."

"Good. Now..." Rhino chuckled and cracked his knuckles. "How 'bout we go make this official? I hear there's a pig who need whackin'."

"O-okay. Look, Rhino, what happened to you?" Mugsy asked. "You're talking weird, and all this omerta stuff..."

"Mr. Scarface happened," Rhino said harshly. "Met him in Chicago. And maybe he is a little... eccentric. But don't worry about it. That's how geniusesare..."

* * *

><p>Thanks so much for the reviews, everyone! I promise the next chapter will have Selina, Thorne, and possibly more Joker.<p> 


	6. Curiousity

The grand ballroom of the Vreeland Hotel had nothing on Wayne Manor. While the sprawling mansion was large enough to comfortably accommodate Bruce Wayne's three-hundred-and-counting guests, it had just enough of the personal touch- the high oak paneling in the Wayne family crest, the portraits of Waynes past and present adorning the walls, the unexpected staircase or sitting room adjoining the ballroom and lobby- to make it feel less like a hotel and more like a home. A home belonging to someone very, very rich and very, very lonely.

Despite all the glamorous trappings, Selina Kyle could tell Wayne was a bachelor- and, despite the notorious rumors circulating through the tabloids, she also got the feeling that not many girls got to spend the night. The decor was just a bit too formal, too stiff, as if Wayne had hired most of it out. Perhaps it was that English butler of his... Kyle watched said butler making the rounds with a tray of champagne glasses and allowed herself a small smile. She didn't know his name, but she knew his type. Formal, well-trained, impeccably British, and dangerously determined when put to the test. She carefully filed him away under possible security measures and turned to admire a larger-than-life portrait of a mustachioed elder Wayne in dress uniform.

"Impressive, isn't it?" a voice said in her ear.

"Mm," Selina replied, sipping her champagne and sizing up the newcomer with a casual eye.

His very slight accent belied learning- probably Harvard or Yale- and he had a certain air of intellectual smugness about him. He stood about her height, average weight, with carefully combed black hair, a sharp, angular chin, and very bright green eyes.

"I don't believe I've had the pleasure," he said, offering a hand. "Edward Nashton." He said it like she should recognize it.

"...Oh. Yes. Selina Kyle." She took his hand with easy assurance and allowed him a brief smile. "Charmed, I'm sure."

"Do you come here often?" Nashton asked.

"Not really," Selina replied, taking a sip of champagne. "You?"

That brought a quick laugh.

"Oh no, not _me!" _Nashton said. "I'm new here. I'm, eh... helping the Gotham City Police Department. Out on loan, you might say, from New York."

That piqued Selina's interest.

"Oh, really? And what are the boys in blue up to now?" she asked.

For a second, there was a sharp gleam in Nashton's eyes.

"Ah- well, I can't discuss the case, of course," he said. "And really, I'm only a consultant on retainer."

"A forensic scientist?"

"A cryptographer. This painting is really magnificent," Nashton said, turning to the portrait and tracing a finger lightly along its frame. "The brushstrokes here and here... quite typical of the technique used by late nineteenth-century painters. But very, very new. Look where the gloss meets the outer frame. Sealant... so very twenty-first-century. And you can see the artist left no date."

"Are you an art expert?" Selina asked abruptly.

"Oh, no, not at all," Nashton replied complacently. "I merely have a basic knowledge of art history..."

"Why the sudden interest?"

Nashton smiled, eyes gleaming brightly.

"Attention to detail," he replied.

Selina tilted her head back slightly and waited for him to go on. Before he could, however, a very familiar face appeared just over his shoulder. She looked up, and Nashton, sensing the dynamic shift, turned in the same direction.

"Good evening, sir and madam," Bruce Wayne said with mock graveness. "Mind if I cut in on this..." he twirled a finger in the air. "...scintillating conversation?" He took a gulp from his champagne glass and made a face. "I thought I told Alfred to get the '96. Never mind... as I always say, if you can't have quality, go for quantity."

"Mr. Wayne," Nashton said with a brief, toothy smile. "Edward Nashton. What a pleasure to meet you."

"Likewise, I'm sure," the billionaire drawled, extended a hand somewhat crookedly. "But I must say that while it is- while I am pleased, _enormously _pleased to meet you, the pleasure is absolutely nothing to what I will have in learning the name of this lovely lady."

And he smiled broadly in Selina's direction. She sighed. Just lovely. Another empty, wealthy socialite who thought having too much alcohol in his system gave him a better chance with women. She gave him a measured glance and pointedly did not offer her hand.

"Selina."

"Selina," Bruce repeated, running his tongue over his teeth and slouching over to her. "Sure that's the only name you have?" He tried to drape his arm around her shoulders; with a quick twist, she stepped out of reach. He followed her, shifting his body to invade her personal space again. "Sure we haven't met somewhere, beautiful?"

"Positive," Selina retorted, drawing herself neatly together and crossing her arms over her chest. "I would have remembered."

Again, that famous smile, this time much closer. Selina idly wondered why Wayne even bothered hosting a "charity fundraiser" if he spent most of it stinking drunk.

Wait.

Stinking.

Wayne's face had been within six inches of her own twice in the last ten minutes, both times with his mouth open. The overpowering reek of alcohol had been most noticeably absent. Certainly, there had been a faint odor of champagne- she could tell he'd been drinking- but not enough to get Wayne solidly drunk. She had experience with sizing up the drunkenness of a potential mark, and Wayne should have been nowhere near as soused as he acted. Selina's interest was piqued.

"...so whattaya say? Your place..." Wayne leaned back and gestured at the massive room... "or mine?"

An ironic smile curved the edges of Selina's lips.

"Hm. We don't know each other very well... do we?"

He grinned and leaned in close again.

"And whose fault is that?"

She laughed lightly and uncrossed her arms.

"Ah, but if you really want to get to know me," she said, giving him her best "coy-and-playful" look, "you'll have to do one thing first..."

"And that is?"

Selina stood on tiptoe, placing one hand lightly on his shoulder, and leaned in to whisper in the billionaire's ear.

_"Drop the act."_

Before he had time to recover, she had stepped back, out of reach, and turned her body back towards Edward Nashton. She coudn't resist a quick glance at the playboy, and was gratified to see Bruce Wayne looking thunderstruck.

"So, Edward," Selina said, deliberately casual, "what do you think? Want to make a drunken pass at me as well?"

Edward Nashton took a sip of his champagne, green eyes flashing shrewdly at her from over the top off his glass.

"Thanks, but I prefer to hit on someone who won't hit back," he said. "Nice place you have here, Mr. Wayne. Everything looks so new."

"Oh..." Wayne seemed to have recovered from his shock, with the aid of another glass of champagne, "Thanks... it's, uh... recently..."

"Don't tell me you haven't heard about the fire," Selina interjected.

"Oh, I have," Nashton rejoined. "Very coincidental, that fire."

"Coincidental?" asked Wayne, raising an eyebrow.

"Oh- I merely meant it coincided with one of my projects," Nashton said. "I'm a private consultant with the NYPD- a cryptographer- but I do take on... side projects from time to time. Your mansion's untimely demise happened on- well, it must have been the same week- as the termination of one of those projects."

"Wait, you're a cryptographer?" queried Wayne. "You mean, like... a spy? Breaking codes for the CIA and all that?"

Edward Nashton made a face.

"There's much more to it, I assure you. And most of what I do deals with electronic encryption- credit card scams, breaches of computer firewalls, algorithmic interference, even identity theft. Any complex code that needs deciphering."

"But you have broken codes for the government before," Selina put in. "You said there's much more to it..."

"Very good, Miss Kyle. Yes, I have taken on a few side projects for the government, among other clients. In fact, my grandfather was one of the chess players employed by the British intelligence to crack the German naval code during World War II. Quite fascinating, really; they broke the regular army code first and waited until an officer asked for the location of a submarine in the broken code. The answer was relayed back through the ranks in the naval code..." Nashton shrugged. "But perhaps I'm boring you."

"Not at all," Bruce Wayne said, stifling a yawn. "But, uh, if you'll excuse me..." he raised his champagne glass with a brief nod. "I see that Natasha finally got here... really should go say hi..."

Thus saying, he excused himself from the conversation and headed across the ballroom in a lazy, slightly crooked lope. Selina watched him go, tracing a finger delicately along the side of her champagne glass.

"I wonder..." she murmured to herself.

"What he's hiding?" Nashton's voice said in her ear. Selina turned sharply. The cryptographer had lessened the space between them without her noticing, and stood nearly touching her shoulder. "You're a sharp one, Miss Selina Kyle, aka Selina Atwood, aka Leah Wells, aka Anna Felidae. Oh, and may I congratulate you on your very stunning diamond necklace? It... suits you excellently."

"What are you playing at?" Selina hissed.

"Playing? The game of life, I suppose," Nashton smiled. "Pardon me. No, I'm merely doing my job... which is, to spot the pattern of truth behind the lies. The distractions..." He nodded at her necklace. "The necklace just happens a twin of the one worn by Miss Vreeland over there. Though of course yours is quite fake... Quite a coincidence, isn't it?"

Selina's eyes narrowed.

"So what?" she whispered, throwing a quick, wary glance around the room to make sure no one was watching.

"No, you're right, I can't prove anything," Edward Nashton nodded. "Yet. But it would be regrettable if certain... details... were to make themselves known. Chicago, for instance..."

"I don't know what you're talking about," hissed Selina.

"No? A question, Miss Kyle: what would your fashionable friends think of you if they knew your whole story? If they knew... the truth?"

Selina ground her teeth together.

"What do you want, Nashton?"

"Nothing. Yet. Oh, don't worry, I'll think of something," Nashton replied. "I can always do with a few favors from people of your... unique... talents."

"In your dreams," Selina growled.

Nashton laughed and shook his head.

"Not those kind of favors," he said, in easy amusement. "But do try to keep a low profile, Miss Kyle... it would be regrettable if you were to be, as it were, caught red-handed."

And with a slight bow and mischievous wink, he strode off across the ballroom.

* * *

><p>"...and then the politician says, 'I never saw you before in my life!'" Thorne finished. Mayor Garcia and his aides burst into polite laughter.<p>

"That's good, that's very good," the Mayor commented, motioning a passing waiter for another glass of champagne. "So tell me, Mr. Thorne, what are your plans if you do win Rodriguez's seat in the council chamber?"

"Well, Mr. Mayor," replied Thorne, with an expansive gesture, "I fully agree with your mission to, uh, renew hope in Gotham. So I say, what better way to do that than to re-vitalize Gotham City's parks and public facilities? I believe that we need to focus on cleaning up Gotham by improving our parks and public housing. I'm sure you're aware of the broken window theory?"

"As a matter of fact, I am," Garcia said. "I like your vision, Mr. Thorne. Good luck on your run for office. And if you ever need help, advice, moral support-" the two men shared a laugh- "you know where to find me."

"Mind if I join you, gentlemen?" a voice said.

"Ah, Mr. Thorne, may I present our host, Mr. Bruce Wayne," the Mayor said. Bruce Wayne and Rupert Thorne traded nods and shook hands firmly. "Mr. Wayne, this is Rupert Thorne, CEO of Thorne Trading and Stocks."

"We've met," Bruce nodded. Then, as if remembering the beautiful blonde on his arm, he added, "And may I present my beautiful acquaintance and date for the evening, Natasha- er-"

"Ivananov," the woman supplied.

"Oh? You know Mr. Thorne is running for city councilman in next month's election," Mayor Garcia said.

"No, I didn't," Bruce said. "Joining the mayor's hope campaign, Rupert?"

Thorne's fists clenched involuntarily, but he kept a pleasant demeanor.

"That's right," he nodded. "I want to improve the quality of Gotham's public facilities, our city parks, our housing projects. Places like the Narrows should have been torn down years ago, not allowed to turn into festering dens of poverty and crime."

"Oh, well, I'm all for that," Bruce said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Say, how's that, uh, research foundation coming along?"

"Excellently," Thorne said smoothly. "Thanks for asking. I- we're- working with a team of researchers in South America-"

"Um... um... excuse me..."

Thorne was interrupted by a small, miserable man in an ill-fitting tuxedo. He raised an eyebrow threateningly before remembering where he was and stepping back courteously. The man, who stood perhaps four and a half feet tall and had a mop of unruly blond hair, giving him an almost childlike appearance, pressed forward and offered a shaking hand to Bruce Wayne.

"I... um... thanks," he muttered in a thick British accent. "I mean, thank you, sir, for this opportunity... you don't know what it means to me..." The little man's face was becoming progressively redder and redder throughout his speech.

"Don't mention it," Wayne said. "I'm always glad to help when I can... oh, sorry. Uh, Mayor Garcia, Mr. Thorne, Natasha, this is Jervis Tetch. Our, uh, grant recipient."

Jervis Tetch blushed furiously and mumbled a long, rushed greeting under his breath.

"Maybe you could tell the Mayor what you're working on," Bruce prompted.

"Oh! Uh... I'm a neurotechnician," Tetch gulped. "I'm working on, well, it's a, a, um... I hope to find a way to improve long-term memory. I-I think, you see, that the key lies in our glial cells, y-you know, the neuroglial network- it's so much more than just homeostasis and neuron protection- and I think, if I can just amplify or improve the network, it may lead to greater memory retention, transmission, improved mental response, even an improvement in fine motor skills!" the scientist finished proudly. "I haven't tested it yet, but it's all so exciting... thank you, Mr. Wayne, for this opportunity. I... it never would have..." he stopped in confusion.

"I failed college biology," Bruce commented. "Apparently you didn't. I'm, uh... equally excited to see what your research with do, and all that, Mr. Tetch. However, I much more excited to see that Alfred has just brought out the _pain et chocolat _and _chico d'liquer, _so if you'll excuse us, gentlemen..."

"Of course," Rupert Thorne said. "Don't let me keep you..."

* * *

><p>It was three days before the Joker demanded to see Jonathan Crane again. Dr. Arkham slunk out of the terrorist's cell with trembling hands and a tragic expression. The guards gave him a sympathetic glance before re-locking the door and double-checking to make sure Arkham's pen had made it out with him. Jeremiah Arkham heaved a long, weary sigh and started down the hallway towards his office suite. As he opened the door, his secretary looked up from her computer, frowning.<p>

"Dr. Arkham? Is everything okay?"

The aging doctor summoned up what was meant to be a reassuring smile, but came out more as a grimace.

"Just fine, Kathy... just tired, that's all. Could you send in Crane's psychiatrist? ...Thanks. I'll be in my office. Oh, and send in some coffee as well."

"Right away, Dr. Arkham."

Dr. Arkham nodded weakly and headed for his office. God, he was starting to hate this job. He had initially taken on the Joker's case out of a perverse longing for recognition- famous rehabilitations still spoke volumes in psychiatric circles- and a misplaced sense of responsibility. He wouldn't admit that there was an element of curiosity, perhaps even fascination, as well; he only wanted to cure the Joker as per his job description. But after a month and a half of constant exposure to the clown, Arkham was beginning to consider...

No. He couldn't let any of the other doctors take the Joker. Couldn't let them know he'd been _beaten. _He'd been so smug, so confident at that board meeting... he was, after all, the director of Arkham Asylum and therefore the most talented psychologist in Gotham City. To give up on a patient after only six weeks of therapy... Arkham shook his head. Not an option.

There was a knock on his door.

"Dr. Arkham? You wanted to see me?"

"Yes, yes. Please come in, Dr. Quinzelle..."

* * *

><p>Sorry about the late posting... life happened.<p>

R&R for quick update!


	7. Patterns

"So, doc... whaddaya think?"

The Joker narrowed his eyes thoughtfully, running his tongue along his top row of teeth.

"Not... not scary..."

"Knew it. Wayne's a bust, unless you're dating a hot woman," the Joker sighed. He rolled his eyes around the abandoned rec room and sighed. Sure, Ex-doctor Crane had been new and fun and interesting at first, but he was getting tired of talking to what was essentially a living mannequin. Crane was never coherent long enough to mutter anything but a few stilted sentences about fear, and didn't even have the decency to look shocked- and Joker knew he would be shocked, ordinarily- when the psychopathic clown told one of his own special jokes.

So that left them staring at the animated talking box and carrying on long, Kafkaesque conversations on fear, hopelessness, and bestselling cookbooks.

"Fear..." Crane began. "Fear is... everywhere..."

"Yeah, I know. Look, Jonny, not that this conversation isn't, I don't know, _fascinating _or what-not, but..." Joker sighed and shifted, scowling at the straitjacket. He'd been a good little clown so far- no struggling, no agitation, no stabbing- and they still didn't want to risk letting him out. "Why don't they show Batman? Why don't they? He's got to be out there somewhere... come on, Batsy, show 'em all..." The TV image changed to a close-up of a large, grey-haired man in a brown suit smiling and waving atop a red, white, and blue -draped bandstand. "Come _on. _Come on!"

Still nothing. Joker puffed out his cheeks, sucked them back in, breathing in deeper, deeper, until...

"BOO!" he shouted, so loudly and so suddenly that Crane almost fell off his chair. "Not so scary now, are ya, doctor?"

Crane was still twitching and shaking and mumbling to himself, and the Joker wanted so badly to get up off the chair and grab the little scarecrow's face and ask him, just _ask _him...

"Wanna know how I got these scars?" he muttered, half to himself. "Do ya?"

But then there was a quick flash on the screen, and Joker found himself drawn back to the television. Apparently, Bruce Wayne, erstwhile-playboy-turned-humanitarian, had erected some new building or other, and was glad-handing everyone in sight. Mayor Garcia, Police Commissioner Gordon, the fat man in the brown suit, two or three leggy blondes in smart dresses, and a whole platoon of men in black were swarming around the billionaire. But that wasn't what caught the Joker's attention. In the right hand corner of the screen, half hidden behind suits and satin, a man was smiling at the camera and...

He wasn't waving, just opening and shutting his hand in some strange, stuttering rhythm... Joker licked his lips, leaned in closer, and began to count.

* * *

><p>"Glad you think so, Wayne, and I appreciate the offer. Yes, I understand. Of course. Talk to you later."<p>

James Gordon flipped his cell phone shut and turned to Harvey Bullock with a sigh.

"It's Wayne. Wants to make a contribution to the Special Crimes Unit."

Harvey Bullock looked up from his half-finished hot dog. A trickle of ketchup dribbled along one side of his mouth; he swiped at it with a wrinkled coat sleeve, leaving a red smear on the khaki.

"'Scuse me. Sorry." He swallowed heavily and removed his feet from the table. "Think he's trying to buy his way in?"

Commissioner Gordon paused for a moment.

"Maybe. It's hard to get a handle on Wayne."

"Don't do it," Bullock advised. "Better safe than sorry. And 's better ta not owe favors to anyone, even-"

"Don't look now," Commissioner Gordon interrupted in a low voice, "but here comes trouble."

Bullock glanced up from his wiener, caught sight of someone large, blonde, and very angry heading towards the break room, and groaned.

"I think I'll go check on the latest update from Nashton," Gordon said, edging towards the door.

"Sure I can't come with you?" Bullock sighed.

Gordon chuckled and shook his head.

"You can't run from trouble, Bullock," he said. "It just finds you again, bigger and madder than ever."

As if to punctuate his words, the break room door slammed open as Lieutenant Flass burst in, his face curved in an ugly scowl. Gordon nodded sympathetically to Bullock and slipped behind Flass as the big lieutenant took an angry step forward and huffed like a bull about to charge.

"Bullock!" he yelled, pointing an accusing finger at the hefty detective. "What d'you think you're doing, barging in on my case? The Dancer bail was supposed to fly by yesterday!"

"Ah, can it, Flass," Bullock retorted. "We both know yer dirtier than a dog's favorite hydrant. I'm just makin' sure justice is done. Justice. You know. Equal treatment and prosecution for all low-lifes and scumsuckers? No dropped charges or misplaced paperwork when certain people show up in the station? Good old-fashioned impartiality? Or have you forgotten how to say the word _fair?_"

"You sound like Dent," sneered Flass. "Going to run for D.A., Harvey?" He took a confident, rocking step forward, arms akimbo. "Think you're better than the rest of us, want to get your pretty face up on the grandstand and make speeches, two-time all your pals in the force? Yeah, I see it now. You can pose just like him, get a nice mug shot of that two-day shadow... the crowd'll just love you. You're twice the man Dent ever was. And I mean that literally." Flass gestured at the remains of Bullock's hot dog. "But you always did think you were a cut above the average cop. Commissioner's little pet, isn't that right?"

A streak of redness began spreading up Harvey Bullock's thick neck, and he stood up, knocking his chair onto the concrete.

"You got a problem with me, Lieutenant?" he asked.

Flass's mouth smiled and his eyes turned ugly. He looked Bullock over, snorted, and crossed his arms over his bulky chest.

"That's about the size of it, Detective."

Harvey Bullock carefully set his inch-long wiener stub on the table. His eyes never left the muscled lieutenant as he rolled the sausage onto one side, adjusted it carefully on the paper napkin. The next moment, Harvey Bullock had leaped across the room and plowed into Flass's stomach. The momentum carried them together into the thick glass window. Flass's head knocked against the glass with an alarmingly loud clunk, followed by a string of profanity. Halfway down the corridor, Commissioner Gordon cringed and pretended not to hear.

Flass was chuckling, writhing, trying to wrestle Bullock into a chokehold. A former Green Beret and no mean fighter, he was an experienced and dangerous combatant; he was also trapped under Harvey Bullock not-inconsiderable weight and wishing he were the one on top. Flass blocked a punch from Bullock, hammered the unkempt detective's hand with the heel of his hand, and shifted his body weight in an attempt to throw his opponent off-balance. Bullock responded by swearing and, eschewing complex fighting techniques, grabbed Flass's head and brought it down on the ground, hard.

Flass's eyes popped open and his expression abruptly switched from "enjoying a good fight" to "pure and unadulterated rage." He let out an animal snarl and let loose with a powerhouse punch straight to Bullock's face.

There was a distant shout of, "Fight! Fight in the break room!" and several figures rushed in as Bullock clutched his face and Flass slowly, methodically got to his feet.

* * *

><p>"Nashton?"<p>

Commissioner Gordon knocked twice, softly. They'd moved three filing cabinets and countless reams of storage paper out of a dim, long-forgotten storage closet near Evidence, shoved a dingy metal desk in one corner, and thrown up a few light bulbs. It was dull, dim, and oppressively close, with a broad side of heating duct running up one wall. But Nashton had insisted on an office, a proper office with a closing door, and not a cubicle...

Gordon frowned and knocked again.

"Nashton, it's Gordon. I need to speak with you."

There was no reply. Gordon reached for the door handle. Locked. Reluctantly, and with a twinge of guilt- unreasonable and misplaced, he scolded himself; he was the Commissioner and had every right to open the door- he reached for his key ring.

The heavy scent of musty paper and old building wafted out of the room. Carefully, hesitantly, Gordon stepped into the office and reached for the light chain. The bare bulb clicked in, washing everything with warm, dingy light and throwing dark shadows into the corners. Nashton was gone.

A file lay open on his desk, along with several neatly typed sheets of unintelligible letters and symbols, half a dozen photographs of the Bat-pod, and an expensive-looking pen. Gordon bent over the file. Ramirez, Anna. He frowned. What did the Ramirez case have to do with decrypting the Batman's computer?

Then he saw the newspaper clippings.

A jumbled, meticulously clipped lot, they covered half of one wall, some neatly aligned, some overlapping, none crooked. Gordon stepped over for a better look. Every headline, every article, every column featured the Batman. BATMAN: FRIEND OR FOE? queried one headliner from the Gotham Times. It was dated four months ago. VIGILANTE RUNS AMOK NEAR ARKHAM. THE BATMAN PARADOX. BATMAN IS NO HERO. In the upper right-hand corner, a year-old Times headline jumped out at Gordon: "BAT" VIGILANTE STALKS SUBWAYS. The very first Batman appearance. Several articles had been slashed with large red X's: BATMAN PUMMELS NINE NEAR BLUDHAVEN. SECRET OF THE BATMEN. BATMAN: SUPERNATURAL? Several others had been circled in green ink and had scribbled green question marks near the headlines. BATMAN: A TIMELINE. WHITE KNIGHT TRAGICALLY SLAIN. WHO IS BATMAN?

"And that's the sixty-four-thousand dollar question, isn't it?" came a crisp voice from behind Gordon. "Who is the Batman?"

Gordon turned with a start. Edward Nashton, cryptographer and self-proclaimed genius, leaned casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyebrows raised in smug self-satisfaction.

"Nashton," Gordon said. "Where were you?"

"Oh, out and about. Finding answers." The cryptographer ambled across the room and dropped into his chair, folding his arms behind his head. "I know how strange that must sound, in Gotham; most of your men here either spend their days running in circles or, like the invaluable Lt. Flass... never start running at all." Nashton shrugged. "C'est la vie."

"And what have you been doing?"

"Me? Merely doing my job. I am a cryptographer, after all." Nashton's eyes, Gordon noticed, were very bright. "I find patterns. Don't look so surprised. All I have to do is look through random letters. Numbers. Chaos, jumbled together, nothing in common... until you find the pattern. Because there's always a pattern. Pick through the lies to find the truth." He gestured to the wall. "Half of those are lies. Worthless. Fluff stuff, sensationalist journalism barely more than a penny dreadful..." he grimaced and shook his head. "Or so flimsily supported it is, oh most discouraging of reports, self-contradictory."

"What does that have to do with decrypting the computer?" Gordon wanted to know.

Nashton shook his head and let out a long, condescending sigh.

"Oh ye of little brain. The case is so much more than decryption. The pattern..." Nashton shook his head, eyes on the clippings. "It doesn't make sense. On more than one level. Timing, most obviously. These five murders the Batman supposedly committed..." he clicked his tongue. "No. We have multiple eyewitness testimony that he was across town beating the city's most infamous citizen to a pulp in front of the clock tower. Question, Commissioner: How can a man be in more than one place? Answer: he cannot."

"Maybe there's more than one Batman," Gordon offered. He could feel Nashton's sharp, probing eyes on him and swallowed instinctively.

"An interesting but ultimately flawed theory, Commissioner," Nashton replied. "His custom vehicles were built to accommodate one. His modus operandi is solo. And, of course, the Batman imposters became a special target of the Joker's, _remember? _After the televised demise of... Bryan, was it not?... the Batman sightings once again fell to one-man level. I've been tracking his movements, you see," he added proudly. "Mapping out his steps. Tracing his pattern."

"Nashton..." Gordon shook his head, trying to disguise his growing sense of panic. "You're not a homicide detective..."

"No, I'm a cryptographer. And until you get a homicide detective who isn't too corrupt or too _stupid _to stop overlooking facts and ignoring the evidence..." Nashton smiled and shrugged disarmingly. "Maybe I should apply for the badge. Not a bad idea, really. You could do with a detective with a brain, for a change. When is the next test? I'm _certain _I'll pass."

Gordon heaved a long sigh.

"Just finish the decryption, Nashton."

"Of course, Commissioner. I should have it finished by tomorrow."

* * *

><p>Dr. Harleen Quinzelle, a bright, perky intern fresh from GCU, popped her head around the corner and beamed at the director. Despite her hornrimmed glasses and tightly bunned, Dr. Quinzelle always seemed to carry an air of lightness with her. She had a gamin's face, with a sharply upturned nose and wide, innocent blue eyes that sparkled with mischief. Some would have found themselves smiling back; Dr. Arkham merely sighed and removed his glasses.<p>

"Please sit down," he said.

"Right away, Dr. A," Dr. Quinzelle chirped. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing is..." Dr. Arkham shook his head. "You have been providing therapy to Jonathan Crane for, what..."

"Almost two months," Dr. Quinzelle supplied helpfully.

"Almost two months," repeated Dr. Arkham. "And, in your opinion, the patient could benefit from interaction with the other..." he swallowed dryly, eyes firmly fixed on the desk. "Patients."

"You got it! Not with..." Dr. Quinzelle frowned slightly. "Well, you know. His former patients. But I've reviewed a list of possible-"

"Thank you, Dr. Quinzelle, but that will not be necessary," Dr. Arkham said firmly. "I've already found a patient with whom I think interaction will be mutually beneficial. I just need you, as ex-Dr. Crane's primary caregiver, to sign off on the request." He passed the clipboard across the table to Dr. Quinzelle, eyes still fixed on the desk. "I thought it would be expedient to match two prisoners of similar security classification and-"

"Wait a minute. Wait a _minute!" _

Dr. Quinzelle looked up from the clipboard, her cupid's-bow-mouth turning upside down.

"The _Joker? _You want to put him in regular interaction sessions with the _Joker?"_ She shook her head incredulously. "Have you even _looked _at the man's case record?"

"Need I remind you," Dr. Arkham lashed out, "I am the Joker's primary therapist at this time?"

Dr. Quinzelle merely wagged her head, eyes going from Dr. Arkham's face to the clipboard.

"I don't believe this. I just cannot believe this," she said. "He is so- so-" she paused, shook her head again- "evil and destructive and _manipulative. _Wait a minute. He put you up to this didn't you?"

"That's preposterous!" sputtered Dr. Arkham. "I would- I- never- what- completely outrageous and how dare you make that accusation, young lady!"

"Whoa," she said, in soft wonder. "That's... that's actually pretty impressive." Then, sitting up a little straighter, "Maybe I would be willing to sign off, Dr. Arkham. Maybe it would be a good idea for Dr. Crane to start socializing again, even with someone with the Joker. _But..._ there is one thing."

Dr. Arkham groaned.

"I was wondering when you'd get around to that," he commented acidly. "Yes, Dr. Quinzelle, you're due for a promotion. What is it, full-status staff member? Full-time employment and full control over your patients' schedules and regiments? I can have Kathy draw up the paperwork right away."

"Thank you," Dr. Quinzelle nodded, and held out her hand for the pen.

* * *

><p>Aaah! I apologize for taking so long... major case of writer's block and then I couldn't get Nashton's voice down perfectly.<p>

pansymoomalfoy32: Edward Nashton is Edward Nigma's "real" name in the DCU. (Technically, he was introduced as Edward Nygma and retroactively renamed Edward Nashton because it sounded more realistic.)

Many, many thanks to the reviewers!


	8. Mr Wayne

The break room's glass wall shuddered and rattled as Harvey Bullock's massive frame slammed against it, followed by a misplaced punch from his opponent. Flass gave no quarter, springing on Bullock and planting a hard-knuckled fist into the burly detective's stomach. Bullock's breath poured out in a painful whoosh.

"Take him, Flass!" someone yelled.

"C'mon, Yorkie, put up a fight," someone else jeered. "This is Gotham!"

Bullock landed a haymaker on Flass's jaw, sending the big man reeling backwards. There were a few appreciative cheers and whistles.

"Nice one!"

"Didn't see that coming! Guess donut boy packs a punch!"

"Twenty bucks on Flass," someone called. "Twenty bucks!"

"Don't... don't take that bet." Harvey Bullock lumbered to his feet, maneuvering his way around the break room with a wary eye on his opponent. Flass had an ugly light in his eye as he ran a hand over his injured jaw. "Save yer money."

"Think you can take me?" Flass snarled. "Huh? Think you can fight? You don't know the first thing about fighting, you fat-"

Abruptly, Flass lunged at Bullock, his speech ending in an animalistic snarl. The blond lieutenant's face was hot pink; his eyes gleamed with a savage fury. Bullock sidestepped, landed a heavy blow on Flass's shoulder, and let the big lieutenant go crashing into the break room table. There was a tremendous crash as Flass met the metal folding chairs, followed by a low groan. Flass did not get up.

"Learn your lesson, dirtbag," Bullock snapped, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Messin' with me's like playing naked leapfrog with a porcupine." Then, addressing the audience, "Told you not to take that bet."

"Go to hell," groaned Flass.

* * *

><p>Bruce Wayne sprawled beside the pool, his powerful body wrapped in a terry bathrobe, eyes comfortably lost behind dark sunglasses. Shannon, or Shawna, or Sheila, or whatever her name was, crouched on a lounge chair a few feet away, filing her nails and babbling away in happy oblivion. Late-afternoon sunlight flashed on her platinum hair. Her skin was the color of cinnamon; her eyes were a sleepy, overbaked blue. Bruce had started tuning her out less than fifteen minutes after she started talking; she hadn't noticed yet, and he had several more pressing matters to think about.<p>

The Vreeland shooting and subsequent revived manhunt for the Batman, for instance.

Arnold Stromwell had checked himself out of the hospital later that night and promptly dropped off the face of the earth; not even Bruce's dubious underground contacts could pick up any information on the erstwhile mob boss's whereabouts. Several of his contacts had confirmed that "the Black Hand" had engineered the robbery; unfortunately, "Black Hand" was currently nothing more than a shadowy rumor in gangland circles. Someone's cousin's friend had seen the boss and he was huge. Someone else had snuck into someplace he wasn't supposed to be and overheard something; the boss was really a woman! Somebody else had it from very reliable sources that the Black Hand was actually the Falcone phoenix rising from the ashes in the form of a shadowy nephew or son-in-law. Meanwhile, the renewed pressure to catch the Batman had severely limited Bruce's ability to gather firsthand information.

Bruce groaned and shifted on his fluffy towel. How could he have been so careless? Parking the Batpod a few blocks away, in an open alley... even with the self-destruct mechanism, the police had managed to capture the internal computer. Now he had the entire Gotham City police force and one trucked-in cryptographer working on his case.

A shadow fell across the billionaire's face, and he looked up to see a tall woman in a black onepiece smiling at him.

"What's the matter, Bruce, didn't hear my call?"

Bruce sat up quickly. The sunglasses slipped and clattered on the wet concrete; he swiped them up and replaced them.

"Selina! God! No, sorry, I didn't... sorry, I just was..."

Selina chuckled. She had a white terry towel over one muscled shoulder, and stood with easy grace and self-confidence of a trained athlete. Gymnast, if Bruce had to guess. There was something about her wrists and ankles; something not quite thicker, but well-defined, that spoke of regular, strenuous activity. Bruce closed his eyes briefly, enjoying the image of Selina swinging from the practice hoops and landing, gracefully, on the catwalk.

"Busy planning out Wayne Enterprises' next conquest?" she asked. "Or should I call it the Wayne Foundation?"

Bruce swung his feet over the lounge chair, barely missing Sharon's tanned shoulder. She shifted positions and dropped her hands to pout at him.

"Watch out, Brucie, you almost put me in the pool," Sharyce complained. Then, tipping her head a little and puffing her glossy lips out even farther, she gave Selina and unfriendly stare. "Who's this?"

"Ah. Sorry... stupid of me. Selina Kyle, meet... uh... Sharona?"

The blonde's pout hardened into a frown, and she reached for her towel.

"Shayla. And I'll be leaving. Call me if you get bored, Brucie, but not before."

Selina watched Shayla's receding back with a look of deep amusement. Bruce shifted a little, removing the sunglasses, and cleared his throat.

"Uh... sorry. Have a seat." He patted the straps of the empty lounge chair.

"You're too kind," Selina said ironically. "But I'm fine. Just wanted to check up on Gotham's prince. Make sure you're not tripping or anything."

"Just tripping over myself. Sorry. What brings you to the Alouette? I didn't think it was your kind of place," Bruce replied.

Selina arched an eyebrow.

"What gave you that impression?"

"I don't know. I would have pegged you for the fitness type. You know. Workout... enthusiast."

Selina laughed.

"Workout nut, yes, that is the correct term," she said. She glanced briefly over her shoulder before sitting in one easy motion. "But what brings you here? Don't you have some stuffy boardroom meeting to attend?"

"Meeting?" Bruce said. "If Lucius wants me at the meeting, he'd just move it here. Only problem would be the board members- can you imagine all the senior members in Speedos? Uhhh. We'd need bleach for everyone's eyes afterwards. God, I hope I never live to be that old. Drive fast, live hard, die young, that's my motto."

Selina smiled and shook her head.

"No it's not," she said, half-seriously.

Bruce looked half up, waiting, but she didn't say anything.

"What makes you say that?" he said, finally.

"Oh. Well, it's just that you _just _founded the Thomas and Martha Wayne Foundation. And, even if the newspapers attributed it to Lucius Fox's attempts at good PR, the initiative, Mr. Wayne, was all yours," Selina said.

"You've been researching me," Bruce said, covering his realization with a laugh. "Do I have a stalker?"

"Now, you already did a lot of undercover humanitarian work; benefit dinners, anonymous donations, that sort of thing," Selina went on, ignoring Bruce's playful jab. "So I asked myself, why would the richest man in Gotham suddenly depart from his usual M.O. and start a charitable foundation? Two charitable foundations, in fact, one for each parent."

"Yes," Bruce said. "Go on. Did you ever find out why?"

Selina smiled and leaned forward a few inches.

"Yes," she breathed. "It's fairly obvious. You, Mr. Wayne, want to leave your mark on history. It's all about legacy."

"Ah," said Bruce, strangely fascinated.

"And that is why," Selina continued, "when you say your motto is, 'Drive fast, live hard, die young...' I know it is complete and utter bullshit."

"Ah," Bruce repeated. He had to admit, she was good at... whatever she was doing. He couldn't break eye contact with her, and he found himself waiting for each word with an electric sort of anticipation that was equal parts hope and fear. "I see."

"Mm-hm," Selina said, gathering her terry towel around. "But you know, I can't for the life of me think... _why _would Gotham's celebrity multibillionaire want to make people people think... he's a vapid, shallow, reckless, woman-chasing jerk? You see, Mr. Wayne, your mask isn't perfect. There is more to you than what you do."

Bruce shifted uncomfortably.

"No, there's not," he said.

Selina raised an eyebrow and unclasped her hands.

"You still won't trust me," she stated simply. "It's all right, Bruce Wayne. Keep your secrets. Lock them up tight. Just don't be surprised if find yourself locked up with them."

With leonine grace, Selina left the lounge chair and headed across the pool deck. Bruce lifted his hand, drew in his breath- but did not call out to her. He sighed and reached for the sunglasses, replacing them and straightening them as he watched Selina Kyle disappear among the burnished throng.

* * *

><p>Many, many apologies for not updating sooner! I've been terribly busy lately, but should hopefully have more time in the next few weeks to continue the saga. As always, reviews are much appreciated!<p> 


	9. Business Complications

The sun had just sunk into Gotham Harbor, and the city lights were just waking up as the darkness settled in. Viewed from the high windows of Wayne Tower, the city was a sea of darkness with just a few pinpricks of light visible so early in the evening. Bruce Wayne leaned against the chrome handrail, drumming his fingers lightly against the cold metal, and watched as the bar district began to glow. Gotham City was beautiful at night- provided it was viewed from afar.

"Mr. Wayne. You wanted to see me?"

Bruce half-turned, scanning the empty boardroom out of long habit. No one else had followed his friend in, and no one had tampered with the anti-electronic security measures by the door, window, and table. Everything checked out visually, but there was an odd feeling, a nagging sense that something was off. Shaking it off, Bruce forced a smile and turned to his companion.

"Ah, yes, Lucius. Thanks for coming down on such short notice. I was wondering... you mentioned a new project in your email, and..."

The elder businessman chuckled and relaxed against the rail.

"I did. But I'm not sure I should let you know the details, knowing what you did to the last one. And the one before that. You certainly haven't been taking very good care of your possessions."

Bruce laughed a little, ruefully.

"Yeah, well, no one ever said I was a careful driver. Speaking of that, have you been in touch with the police about the-"

"Traffic tickets, Mr. Wayne. Yes, I have. It's nothing the company can't afford..." he hesitated. "But there are a few complications. I know I'm wasting my breath, but a course in basic traffic safety wouldn't hurt you."

"Right, I know," Bruce said. "Won't happen again. Now, about that project-"

"It might be easier to talk about it somewhere private," Lucius said, glancing at the tall windows. "Why don't you come down to my office? I have a few things to show you as well."

Bruce raised an eyebrow. So Lucius had picked up on his employer's unease as well.

"Of course."

To Bruce's surprise, Lucius Fox led him not to the lavish CEO's office just below the boardroom, but to a smaller, windowless office outfitted with a desk, three chairs, and an unusually large computer console. Once they were both inside, Lucius closed and deadbolted the door.

"Problem with burglars?" Bruce quipped.

"Problem with spies, more like," Lucius said. "I didn't want to alarm you before, but the boys in stocks have been noticing some, uh, discrepancies in several traders. I don't want to bore you with business speak, but-" he hesitated significantly.

"No, tell me," Bruce said.

"Some of the smaller stockbrokers have been... making some very advantageous trades lately," said Lucius. "It's nothing to be concerned about- if anything, it's driven the price of the company shares up a few cents- but the bottom line is, we think the boardroom is bugged. No, don't tell me it's impossible. I checked the security measures myself. The room is bare. And I've personally interviewed every board member, checked their bank statements, even had a few followed. They're clean." Lucius sighed and sank into a leather office chair. "But there are still ways to get around the security systems. Bouncing a laser off the window, for instance. It's an old espionage trick, goes back to the second World War. Or maybe our spy is using an advanced non-electronic system... I don't know."

"But we can't discuss delicate matters in that room," Bruce said. "I completely understand. Thanks for letting me know."

"Not a problem. Now, about the new project..." Lucius swiveled around and pressed a few keys on the computer keyboard. The monitor flashed white and immediately opened to a detailed schematic of something long, black, and very menacing. "Since you can't seem to keep smaller vehicles intact, I've modified the Tumbler. Upped the speed and maneuverability, installed a link to your 'sonic vision', linked the onboard computer to the one in your, eh, basement, instigated a full lockdown mode for the Tumbler and the pod so you won't have to destroy her next time you leave her unattended... and I've upped your gas mileage by twenty percent."

Bruce nodded, impressed.

"Very nice. Where do I get her?"

Lucius chuckled, deleting the schematics and shutting off the computer with a few keystrokes.

"You already have her, Mr. Wayne. She's underneath the Tower, in the sub-sub-basement. To tell you the truth, I've been expecting your call for several days now."

Bruce smiled.

"I've been a bit... distracted lately," he admitted. "But thank you. I appreciate your work- on the Tumbler, on the Wayne Foundation." He moved towards the door and then stopped. "By the way. You mentioned some of the stockbrokers had been cleaning up with the stolen information. Any specific names?"

* * *

><p>Rupert Thorne glanced at his iPhone, adjusted his tie, and flicked a speck of imaginary dust off his Armani cuff. Loathe as he was to admit it, Arnold Wesker's "dummy corporation" scheme was one of the best operational strategies he'd used in years. It was efficient, safe, and- so far- completely undetected by law or Batman. And, of course, being the head of a legitimate business and a shoo-in for city councilman had many, many perks. Thorne enjoyed fine dining, personally-tailored suits, expensive automobiles, beautiful companions, and power-laden decisions on a regular basis- all the while being congratulated by the Mayor and chief of police. It was all the benefits of a gangland boss and none of the dangers; a dream come true.<p>

In fact, Thorne was enjoying his illegally-funded legal lifestyle so much he'd passed control of "the Black Hand" to two of his most trustworthy capos and focused nearly exclusively on Thorne Trading & Stocks Incorporated. Reclining slightly in the plushly upholstered chair, he stared at wall and chuckled to himself. Though he hadn't expected it, heading up an extensive, factioned, and often-brutal crime family had prepared him perfectly to lead a large corporation. He had excellent networking skills, a good head for numbers, and wasn't afraid to make the tough decisions. Thorne Trading & Stocks had outperformed nearly all their competitors for the quarter, amassing a profit margin good even by mob standards. Life was good.

So when Arnold Wesker called Thorne less than half an hour ago, requesting an urgent meeting with his boss, Thorne was inclined to put it down to a combination of paranoia and envy on Wesker's part. The little bookkeeper had become increasingly agitated lately, insisting that he was being followed and requesting extra escorts to and from his nearby apartment. Thorne had reluctantly put up with it out of grudging respect for Wesker's business know-how, but it was getting old. Wesker might have had one or two big brainwaves, but Thorne couldn't let him rest on his laurels forever.

Thorne slid open a chestnut desk drawer and removed a large, expensive cigar. Wesker had been waiting long enough. Reaching for his lighter with one hand, he pressed the intercom button with the other.

"Julie? Send Arnold Wesker in."

Almost immediately, the heavy oaken door slid open and Arnold Wesker walked in, throwing a quick glance over his shoulder. The bookkeeper looked even worse than usual; he wore an ill-fitting black suit with a cheap, stiff bowtie that kept sliding towards his chest. Every few steps, the miserable Wesker stopped and jerked the bowtie up nearly to his chin, where it immediately drooped and began sliding again.

"Er, er, Mr. Thorne," he stammered, throwing nervous glances at the room's corners. "I'm so glad you, uh, uh, came- I mean, that you let me come- that you let me c-c-come see you on s-such short no-notice."

Thorne sighed and lit his cigar.

"Yes, well, Arnold, what is it this time?"

"It's about the... about Thorne Inc," Wesker said, shifting from foot to foot. "I heard... I mean, someone told me- I didn't know before- that, well, you were, that you had hired... a thief."

Thorne closed his eyes to avoid rolling them.

"Wesker, that was my decision," he said. "How this company operates is none of your concern. You're to keep disguising the... you know... and keep the paper trail going. Understood?"

"Oh, oh, absolutely, sir! Black Hand's my job, I got it. It's just, well... I just think... are you sure it's safe? H-hiring a thief, I mean. You could get caught."

"So what if I get caught? I didn't know anything about it. One of the VPs did it without my knowing," Thorne said. "This sort of thing happens all the time. Corporate espionage is par for the course; there won't be a scandal or anything like that. I have got this under control, Wesker."

He leaned back and puffed out hazy smoke. Wesker coughed and choked, but didn't say anything.

"And as for you," Thorne went on, "you've been awfully on edge lately. We've all noticed it. Why don't you take some time off?"

"Oh, no, I couldn't do that," Wesker said quickly. "I've got to keep working. They- they all say so."

Thorne raised an eyebrow.

"Patrick and Charles?" he said.

"N-no... I mean, yes, yes sir. I'm sorry." Wesker's eyes fell to the carpet again.

Thorne heaved a long sigh. Normally, he would encourage his underling to find a doctor, 'there's no shame in seeing a psychiatrist,' etc, but Wesker was born to blab. One hour with the shrink, and all Thorne's secrets would be street talk. While street doctors were common, reliable street psychiatrists were- less common, especially in Gotham. If only Jonathan Crane was still in business...

"I want you to take a week's paid vacation," Thorne said. "No arguments. Go stay in a nice hotel, treat yourself to a steak dinner, find a girl, do whatever it is you do to relax. I hear is the circus is in town. Just do something to let off some steam. Understand?"

Wesker fidgeted, maintaining eye contact with the carpet.

"Yes, sir. Anything you say, sir."

* * *

><p>It had been two days since the big fight, and Flass still wasn't speaking to Bullock. The big New York detective had hoped his new coworker would deal with the fight the way most cops would, or had in Bullock's experience- accept it and move on. Unfortunately, Flass had decided to hold a grudge. Besides terse three-word answers ('Yes' 'No' 'I don't know' 'Go to hell') to Bullock's questions (Didja file the paperwork? Seen Nashton around? Where's the Commissioner? What's up with you, anyway?), Flass refused to speak to Detective Bullock. Harvey heaved a huge sigh and took an even huger bite of his pastrami and rye. Boy, he absolutely hated the silent treatment. It was a real punishment not to hear that asshole's whining every five minutes, and he'd just have to take the Commissioner's advice and "patch things up with Flass" if he wanted to be on speaking terms again.<p>

Besides that, things were going pretty good around the station. The Amazing Eddie Nashton, also known as the Man With the Biggest Head on Earth, was workin' overtime on the Bat vigilante case, logging more hours than even Bullock remembered. He'd get there in the morning, and Nashton would be pacing around in that crappy little office of his, muttering; at night, the light would still be on- he was still workin'. The guy might be insufferable and have an ego the size of Rhode Island, but he more than made up for it with hours logged- and results. Bullock had worked with him before, and there was a sort of magic in the way Nashton pulled condemning evidence out of scrawled letters or damaged CPUs. Say what you could about Eddie Nashton, he was a hard worker.

Pity the Commissioner didn't see it the same way. Bullock munched happily on his sandwich and watched the harried Commish chase two junior analysts back to the lab. Something was up with the Commissioner- marriage troubles, maybe. He was sweating all the time, always tired, checking his watch. Having been a married man himself, Bullock knew the signs of a marriage going south. He shoved the last of the pastrami into his mouth and wiped his fleshy fingers on his trenchcoat. Maybe he should say something, offer a few words of advice to the Commish.

"Hey, Commish?" Bullock called, stepping out of the break room and rubbing the back of his hand across his mouth. "Commish?"

A passing dispatcher pointed him to Nashton's office, and the burly detective headed down the hall towards Cryptography and Heating Central. The scratched and dented door stood open a crack, sagging nearly to the worn linoleum, and Bullock could hear voices arguing inside.

"-patterns indicate a far greater crime than murder, Commissioner, it indicates _lies. _Yes, lies, Commissioner! It's a cliche, really, something right out of Christie or Doyle. A man is murdered in front of three witnesses, a man the city loves, a man used to living in the public eye... a picture really, an image of hope emblazoned on the public eye. But you know every picture has its negative image."

"Nashton, I will thank you to stand down!"

"Stand down? Stand down from what, the truth? How very true to form. I anticipated this, you know, that you'd try to stop me. I hate lies, Commissioner, I hate them! But they're everywhere. Just turn on the television, listen to the double talk. There's two meanings to everything, even if they contradict each other. They always contradict each other! But you probably won't figure that out until it's too late."

"That's enough!" Bullock shouted, knocking the door aside with one heavy hand. Nashton looked up from the desk, eyes glinting sharply in the dim light.

"Oh, if it isn't the Commissioner's pet bull," he sneered. "But I bet he won't even touch you once he knows the truth, will he, Gordon? Then again, perhaps he's too thick-headed to grasp reality, and he'll be backing you forever. Personally, I'm betting on a quick drop into the bottle."

"What are you talking about?" Bullock snapped. "You insultin' me, Eddie?"

Nashton's mouth curved downwards into a thin frown.

"Don't ever call me that," he said.

"Don't like it, huh? Then you quit buggin' the Commissioner," said Bullock. "Look, Commish, I dunno what's this all about, but Nashton, it ain't yer place to call down on the Commissioner. He's doin' the best he can with what he's got. Leave him be and you work on catchin' this cop killer. We all want to see him behind bars."

To Bullock's surprise- and dismay- Nashton pulled himself back and sneered at him.

"Oh, of course we do!" he replied. "And fear not, my worthy detective friend, I will stop at nothing to catch the cop killer- and his accomplices. Justice will be served- just as Harvey Dent would have wanted."

"Nashton-" Gordon began, and stopped. Bullock glanced over his shoulder at the Commissioner. His face had gone pasty, and his forehead glistened a little. "Listen, Nashton, just do your job and leave the rest to us. You have cracked the computer, haven't you?"

"I have decrypted the computer, yes," Nashton replied.

"Then get it ready for the press conference. Just the results, you understand? We don't- we can't-" Gordon stopped and wiped his forehead. "Just get the results ready."

Nashton gave the Commissioner a razor-sharp smile and picked up a thin, neat manila folder from the desk.

"Ready when you are... Commissioner."

Bullock watched in half astonishment as the Commissioner didn't reply, didn't make eye contact, just slouched out of the room. The big detective turned back and squinted at Nashton, trying to decide whether or not to use the thousand-yard stare on him. Nashton just kept smiling and nodded briskly to Bullock as he left the room, a spring in his step. Bullock fell against the desk and shook his head in bewilderment.

What in blazes was going on?

* * *

><p>Thanks so much for the reviews, and special thanks to AZ-woodbomb. Great tips, especially for chapter 7. Constructive criticism makes my day.<p>

The Black Hand group isn't from DCU at all; it's a historical shout-out to Al Capone, the original Scarface, who helped organize the Chicagoan Black Hand gang. Oh, and the reason Dumpster is capitalized is... it's a brand. The Bat-Dumpster thing made me laugh, though.


	10. Roses and Riddles

It began with a rose.

She'd had the Joker's caseload for less than a week when it appeared on her desk: a single red rose, dried, in a slender black vase. There was a note attached: "COME DOWN & SEE ME SOMETIME. -J" It didn't take a genius to figure that one out. She'd considered going down to see him, but thought better of it; whatever or whoever the patient known as Joker might be, he was infamously manipulative. Getting the swell-headed Dr. Arkham to let him watch television- and fraternize with another high-level patient- showed a certain amount of cunning and power, but it also showed an (intuitive?) grasp of psychiatry. The Joker knew, whether from formal learning or brutal experience, the right psychological levers to pull. It was like coming up against an opponent in a street fight and finding they knew the basic principles of jiu-jitsu. And Dr. Harleen Quinzelle was smart enough to realize when she was outmatched.

She wouldn't let him pull her strings the way he had with Dr. Arkham; she would wait, bring up the rose in an unfamiliar situation, take away his home court advantage. Maybe next week. She'd wait until the end of a session and then, casually, mention the rose: "Care to tell me how this got in my office?" "By the way, you wouldn't know anything about the rose, would you?" "I think the guards would be interested to know you've been out of your cell."

Although they both knew he hadn't put it there, not himself. The Joker was far too dangerous, far too notorious to warrant anything less than three guards, constant surveillance tapes, and a dizzying array of motion-detecting, pressure-sensing security devices all over his door. He hadn't been out of that cell anytime soon. Which meant... someone had to be doing it for him.

It was fascinating, really, the power this man exercised over others. He had a certain magnetism, a sort of warped charisma; Harley wondered what sort of man he would be in another life, under difference circumstances. There was something of greatness about the Joker, fragmented as it was by the man's psychosis. He was like... a prophet gone wrong. Harley tapped her pen on the desk and stared at the white rose in the red vase, and the black rose in the white vase, and the red rose in the white vase. A curious smile tugged at her lips. The Joker was giving her flowers... in the theme of playing card colors. She already knew where this was going.

Harley stood up, scooted her desk chair back in, and reached for her white coat. Time to confront the issue. He would be in the rec room about this time, probably watching TV or harassing Dr. Crane or making off-color jokes about the Batman. The Joker had "negotiated" Dr. Arkham into letting him watch TV with Crane twice a week. He wouldn't be expecting her to show up, not in the rec room, not outside the normal session time. It would be the perfect time to throw him off.

* * *

><p>"Sooooo... you're back in the land of the living, the land of the living, huh?" The Joker licked his lips and did his best to smile comfortingly despite the scars. "Took you long enough... to sober <em>up!"<em>

"Shut up," Dr. Crane muttered.

The blue-eyed ex-doctor had been slowly returning to lucidity over the past week, and while the Joker would miss their unsettling, nonsensical conversations on fear, Batman, and informercial veracity, he had to admit that a fully-functioning Dr. Crane had his upsides. For example, the potential for torment was much greater when the good doctor could actually appreciate his humorous death threats and killer sense of humor. Well, he had appreciated them... and then he seemed to quit grasping the _significance _of Joker's shared genius.

"You know," the Joker mused, "you're awfully snippy. For a doctor. I mean, didn't you used to work here or something-"

The restraints on Crane's wheelchair rattled violently.

"Ooh. That's not nice," observed Joker. "Listen, listen, Johnny, I didn't mean it like that. It was just... you know... a _joke. _I really don't want us to get off on the wrong foot, not with... you just out of detox and everything. Ooh! Press conference!"

"Didn't know you were into politics," Crane said in stifled tones.

The Joker rolled his eyes. And there he went, making assumptions about the Joker just like all the others in this rotting place. Poor, blind, sad, stupid little bird- and the Joker had had such high hopes for him at first.

"I'm not," he said, stating the obvious. "It's just..." he paused to lick his scars, his lips already chapped and crack from lack of lipstick. "I like riddles."

Dr. Crane stopped and stared at him like he'd lost it. The Joker hated that look. It made him want to stab something or kill someone or light something on fire. However, for Johnny's sake- and because he knew, he just knew that Dr. Quinzelle would be sneaking in sometime soon- he controlled his rage and gave Dr. Crane a patient smile. The good doctor swallowed and leaned back slightly.

"_See, _Johnny boy, you probably don't _remember _this," the Joker began, patiently, "but when you were still-" he rolled his eyes expressively- "you said something very, very... _true. _There's no going back. There's _no _going back. You and I, we're just the first. We've changed everything. He's changed everything."

And Dr. Crane got it. He leaned forward, his eyes a dark, intense blue, and ventured-

"The Bat-Man?"

"Yooouuuu... win a million dollars. It's like he's drawn a line. In the sand. And now, people are already lining up to cross it. We just happened to be the first." Joker's eyes moved to the television, and he nodded at it. "See, the dear little _Commissioner _doesn't know it yet, but he's got something behind him who's starting to ask _questions. _Someone who wants to know the truth about Batman. Somebody who likes _riddles. _And he's going to be the _fuse_ for my brushfire. And then, Johnny, you and I... we'll sit back and listen to them scream and watch the Battyman and all his _STUPID, SENSELESS _little friends run around trying to put it out..."

"And watch the city burn," finished Dr. Crane in a near-whisper.

Joker leaned back, whipping his tongue over his scars.

"You got it." He stared at the TV screen, watching Gotham's finest, richest, and most elite take the grandstand. "Ooh. Here he comes. Why don't you come over and join us, Ms. Quinzelle? I think we're ready to begin our little session."

And she did come, her pretty little face blushing a little despite all her self-control. It almost made him chuckle; it almost made him laugh. She was so... _predictable. _

"You're referring to Edward Nashton, the cryptographer who's been sending out messages in Morse code?" she asked.

But somehow, she always managed to surprise him.

"Very _good, _Ms. Quinzelle," the Joker said. "Y'know, I honestly wouldn't have pegged you for the Morse code type. Too... blonde."

Dr. Quinzelle tucked a strand of cornsilk hair behind her ear and looked at him with guileless blue eyes.

"I'm not, actually," she said. "It's colored."

The Joker mouthed an _'Ohhhh' _and nodded, turning back to the television.

"Dr. Quinzelle," Crane said, stiffly. "Your entrance is highly... unexpected. Have all Arkham's personnel guidelines gone to-"

"Ooh. Ooh. Turn it up, now," the Joker interrupted. "Turn it up, Johnny. I want to see."

Onscreen, Commissioner Gordon was just leaving the podium. He looked oddly pale, and kept looking out towards the audience as if expecting a sniper to pop up and take aim. Joker giggled. The poor man was so nervous, and with such good cause... Gordon finally left the podium, and the Joker's favorite member of the GCPD- or any police department, actually- stepped up to take the microphone. Edward Nashton looked especially pleased with himself today. His black hair was carefully combed, his suit flawlessly clean, and he nodded pleasantly to the camera before occupying the podium.

"Good morning, Gotham City," he said. "As of today, I am pleased to announced that I have not only decrypted most of the Batman's vehicular computer, but I have uncovered a crucial piece of withheld evidence in the ongoing murder investigation. I am _sure_ that everyone present deeply laments the tragic death of the late district attorney, Harvey Dent. His brief but brilliant career marked the beginning of a new age in Gotham City, one in which-"

"Wait for it," muttered the Joker. "Wait for it."

"However, you have all heard far too many testimonials and eulogies to the fallen White Knight," Nashton continued. Almost imperceptibly, he began tapping his right fingers against the bottom of the podium. The Joker smiled grimly and began to count. "And so, citizens of Gotham, I shall not bore you with another. Instead, it is my pleasure to announce that I have discerned, without a doubt, the identity of the Bat-cycle's manufacturer." Off to one side, Commissioner Gordon took out a large handkerchief and mopped his forehead. "Though heavily, heavily encrypted, this computer was indubitably manufactured by Wayne Enterprises. The hardware has been identified as a hodge-podge of unmarked parts from China, North Korea, and the Ukraine, but the software and programming is quite clearly from W.E. Rest assured, the Gotham City Police Department will do everything in its power to bring the murderer- whomever he is- to justice. Thank you."

With a last smirk at the camera- or at Gordon- the cryptographer descended the podium and Summer Gleeson's smiling face filled the screen. Jonathan Crane made an expression of distaste and muted the volume.

"'What breaks but never falls?'" Crane asked. "It's a riddle... Didn't Harvey Dent fall to his death?"

"Yes, but what about break?" Dr. Quinzelle put in. "It doesn't fit. It's got to be a, a pun, a wordplay of some kind..."

"It's the other half," said the Joker, quietly. "There's two. They go together. 'What _falls _but never breaks? What breaks... but never falls?'"

"I've heard it before," said Crane. "Dusk and dawn."

The Joker smiled.

"That's right," he said. "But it's not the answer. Not quite."

* * *

><p>Thanks to the reviewers! R it makes updates come faster!<p> 


	11. Allegedly the Batman

Selina Kyle glanced warily around the restaurant. It was a nice place, a place for where rich men came to relax and smoke and reassure themselves of their masculinity. The glassy eyes of long-dead beasts leered down from every wall; just inside the front door, a Kodiak bear reared in a silent roar just over a humped wildcat. It was disgusting. But it was also expensive, and exclusive. If it were evening, or even late afternoon, half of Gotham's male elite would be clamoring for the door. Nashton was rather obviously trying to impress her- or frighten her.

Either way, it was working.

"You poor creatures," Selina whispered, pulling her wool shawl a little closer as she passed a mounted tigress and cubs. "I'd like to get my hands on the men who did this to you."

Just ahead, two sets of heavy footsteps alerted her to the presence of- someone. Selina dropped to the floor and slipped under a nearby table as two tuxedo-clad employees dawdled by.

"-you'd think he owns the place, coming in at all hours," one grumbled. "Special arrangement with the owner indeed! He's not even from Gotham!"

"Tough," the other agreed. "But you have to put up with stuff like that. Did you hear about when Bruce Wayne dropped by-"

Selina waited until they were twenty feet away and leaped noiselessly to her feet. In the library, he had said. Near fireplace, he had said. According to her blueprints, that should be just around the corner.

"Thank you for meeting me on such short notice, Miss Kyle." Edward Nashton looked up from his table with deliberate casualness. "Please, have a seat. I trust you had no trouble avoiding the club's laughably ineffective security?"

"No trouble whatsoever," Selina said bitterly, dropping into the chair across from him. He had been reading the paper, underlining words, circling titles. A finished crossword hung limply over his chair arm. "What are you doing?"

Quickly, he swept the paper up into a neat bundle, folded it, and set his coffee mug on top.

"Curiousity killed the cat," he remarked. "Now. Miss Selina Kyle. May I congratulate you on the Wayne Tower job; I couldn't have done it better myself."

Selina rolled her eyes.

"Please. A rookie could have done that," she said. "Listen, Nashton, let's cut to the chase. I know you want something, something big. It has to do with Wayne, doesn't it?"

Nashton shifted a little in his seat, and Selina was secretly gratified.

"What makes you say that?" he said.

"Please. If you want to play the 'slightly illegal shareholder' angle... at least bother to have more than two grand in Wayne Enterprises stock," she said. "Or to hold it for more than three weeks."

"You checked up on me," he said, sounding almost delighted.

"I always check up on my employers, Nashton; it's why I'm still in the game," she said. "I also know you bought three separate blueprints of Arkham Asylum, and you managed to pull Harvey Dent's 'highly classified' murder file at police headquarters. And then you hired me. So I'm asking nicely, Edward Nashton. What exactly are you up to?"

Edward Nashton drew in his breath slowly, his eyes glittering.

"My dear," he said, "you're absolutely fascinating."

"So I'm told," Selina said. "Don't change the subject."

Nashton fidgeted, crossed and uncrossed his legs, adjusted his pea-green tie.

"Very well," he said, at last. "Let's put our cards on the table, shall we? You see-" he paused, glanced around the room, ran a hand under the table- "you see, I'm hunting the Batman."

Selina laughed skeptically.

"No, no, I'm entirely seriously. The more I research, the more I really _look... _I don't think he killed anyone at all. It just doesn't fit the pattern," Edward said in hushed tones. "It doesn't _fit, _I tell you! It doesn't make sense! So many of these facts, so-called, can be easily eliminated as fabrications, merest disguises, clumsy lies... what we need is the truth."

"Oh, God," Selina snorted, shaking her head. "What is truth?"

Edward Nashton's eyes burned electric green as he looked up, quickly.

"Truth," he said, "however improbable, is what remains when you have eliminated the impossible. It is impossible for Batman to have murdered those cops- and Dent- therefore someone else did it. Don't you see? It's a frame!"

"All right, certainly, let it be a frame," said Selina. "Where does this affect me? And why hunt him if you think he's innocent?"

A slow, sharp smile spread across Edward's face.

"Because," he said. "Gotham... deserves the truth. There's more to this than a Bat-themed vigilante and a- a schizophrenic anarchist. Batman let himself be framed, let himself be hunted and blamed and cursed... to cover something. He's hiding something, and I'm going to find out what. I must find out what. And that, my dear Selina Kyle, is where you come in. I need someone who can draw him out, someone who can meet him on his own terms. Someone... like him."

Selina drew back, all her sense on guard at the gleam in Nashton's eyes.

"What do you want?" she said warily.

"Oh, don't worry," Nashton said, with a smile. He reached into his suit front and pulled out a small, green leather book. "Let me show you my idea. I think you'll love it... kitten."

* * *

><p>Bruce Wayne groaned inwardly as his black limo pulled up in front of Wayne Tower. The reporters were waiting, a crowd of starving dogs eying the sleek vehicle with ravenous eyes. After Nashton's melodramatic announcement on live TV the day before, every news station in Gotham lay in wait for the billionaire.<p>

"I'm guessing I'll be making the evening news again," he mumbled, watching the reporters circle.

"Well, sir," Alfred commented, from the driver's seat. "I believe it was P.T. Barnum who said 'Any publicity is good publicity.'"

"You went to the circus last night," Bruce stated.

Alfred chuckled.

"I did, sir. I had an excellent time. You should go sometime, try to relax a little."

"At the circus?" Bruce said.

"No, in your office. I think if you can make it past those Gotham Live folks you can slide under the big gent from the Informer and make it inside before he turns around."

"Mm," said Bruce. "I almost wish I had the suit. Well, cover me, Alfred. I'm going in."

Bruce grabbed his briefcase and swung the door open. Immediately, the reporters packed in around him, shoving microphones towards his face.

"Mr. Wayne, any comment on the allegation that Wayne Enterprises was responsible-"

"Mr. Wayne, can you give us any response to yesterday's press conference-"

"Mr Wayne! How will the recent accusation against Wayne Enterprises affect the company's market performance and-"

Bruce stopped at the top of the stairs, holding up his hands as in self-defense.

"Look, I'm, uh, not really sure what to tell you right now," he said. Cameras flashed from every side, and he could see three or four news cameras zooming in on him. "We're still investigating exactly how the vehicle managed to get into the hands of this- lunatic vigilante."

"Mr Wayne!" It was Summer Gleeson of Gotham Live, elbowing her way through the crowd. "Care to comment on Rupert Thorne's accusation that 'Wayne Enterprises is secretly funding and supplying vigilantes?'"

"Now that's ridiculous," Bruce said, pointing at Gleeson.

"How about Mr. Nashton's theory that Batman was involved with the former Applied Sciences department?" Gleeson replied before he could continue.

Bruce stopped.

"That's... even more ridiculous," he said. "I personally know the man who led Applied Sciences, before it merged."

"According to W.E. records, that would be Lucius Fox, your new CEO. Don't you think it's a bit strange for someone like him to rise to such power so quickly?" Summer Gleeson would not be deterred.

The reporters exploded into sharp, fast questions as Bruce turned away, shaking his head, and swept into the building..

"What about the fact that Wayne Enterprises was responsible for manufacturing the concentrated microwave emitter used in the Fear Night attack?"

"Or the fact that Wayne Enterprises conducted several questionable deals during William Earle's stint as CEO?"

"Any response to the allegation that Lucius Fox may be Batman?"

* * *

><p>"Mr. Wayne," said Lucius Fox, staring gravely at Bruce from the end of the conference table. "We have a serious problem on our hand."<p>

"I know," Bruce said. He slipped his coat off, flung it over his leather office chair, and dropped into the chair between two austere department heads. "It's absolutely crazy out there; they're saying the Applied Sciences department had some ties to the, uh, vehicle?"

"That's right," an elderly businessman farther down the table spoke up. "I've looked through the files myself; we did have a similar-styled design early in '02. It was part of a, uh, military contract, used for bridging in extreme combat situations- I won't bore you with the details."

"That's right," Lucius said. "I remember that model. It was scrapped after the total cost exceeded the benefit. We manufactured perhaps three different prototypes, and they're all accounted for."

"So how did the goddamn Batman get hold of one?" demanded a tight-lipped businesswoman. "You oversaw that department, Mr. Fox; explain this to me."

"Well... I..."

"As I recall, the Applied Sciences department was the same that 'misplaced' that microwave beam emitter," the man to Bruce's left put in, suddenly.

"We did things a little differently under Mr. Earle," Lucius Fox said, in the tone of one admitting a family secret. "I couldn't always track things coming in and out, he moved them around so much. There were several, ah, 'inconclusively purposed' departments around that time that we eliminated after going public and..."

Bruce leaned back in his chair. Trust it to Lucius to save the day with business jargon. The tension in the room was already relaxing as Lucius rattled on smoothly, explaining it all in proper, familiar terms. Bruce smoothed back his hair and...

Wait.

Near the window, just along the pane, something flashed. Bruce stopped, pretending to check his watch, and waited. There. Again, a faint, flickering beam ran just along the steel spars of the window. Across the street, barely visible behind the dark office tint, a shadow moved in an empty window. Bruce stared at it, intrigued, as the figure drew out of sight, reappeared, bent, and then began to lift something up- something long and round and shaped, alarmingly, like a gun barrel.

"Lucius!" Bruce shouted. "Right there!"

"He's right!" the little man on Bruce's left screamed. "I see it! Get down, he's got a gun! It's the Batman!"

The room erupted in chaos as the entire board immediately started evacuating their seats by the windows and ducking under the table.

"Security!" Lucius boomed, his fist on the table intercom. "Security, call the police immediately. I want to know who has the office directly across and two stories up from meeting room one! Mr. Wayne, I'd advise relocating to a safe room right away."

Bruce nodded gravely and tried not to smile.

"Whatever you say, Mr. Fox."


	12. A New Player on the Board

By the time Bruce reached the suit in the "safe room," he had already identified the rifle-wielding occupant of the little room across the way. Multigon International had recently moved out of the big skyscraper, and the broker had been leasing out the offices on a person-by-person basis. Thanks to Lucius, a very fast computer, and a Bluetooth headset, Bruce knew the room in question had been leased to one E. Nigma less than two weeks ago. The name didn't tell him much- but it told him a lot. Bruce set his jaw grimly and reached for the cowl.

It was an alias, obviously, but there was something alarming about it, something humorous and a little dangerous, something that smacked of theatricality.

Bruce pulled on the last of the Kevlar armor, flipped open the sub-basement manhole cover, and put a hand to his cowl.

"Ready, Lucius," he growled. "You can turn it on as soon as I get into the tunnels."

"All right, but be careful," Lucius' tinny voice replied from somewhere in the cowl. "There's a lot of interference already, and it will only get worse when you go deeper. I have a few old-fashioned blueprints if we need them, but the old water system... it's like a maze down there."

"A labyrinth, Lucius." Bruce stood still for a moment, letting his eyes adjust. The old Gotham water system was indeed a "Just point me in the right direction. I don't want to be seen until I reach Multigon."

The sonar imaging was blurry at best. The abandoned water system, a crumbling brick catacomb dating back to the nineteenth century, appeared as a series of static-laden images, shaky arches, grainy pixelated tunnels. Thirty feet into the main conduit, the sonar image stretched and danced impossibly and disappeared.

"I don't have time for this," Bruce rasped, reaching for the flashlight on his belt. "Give me the directions, quickly. I need to get over there before the assassin makes it to the roof."

"cksssthsth to your right sffchssshtskh ten feet sckhhhhhhthhhhh-"

That wasn't good. Bruce stopped, tapped the cowl transmitter. The static rushed through the earpiece, louder and louder, and then- nothing. Uneasy, Bruce clicked on the belt flashlight and beamed it around the conduit. This must have been the main branch; it was large enough to him to stand up with ease, and several smaller tunnels snaked off from it at various points. From the dark end of the tunnel, a pair of tiny eyes shone up from the soft, dust-dry floor. Bruce took a step forward, and the rat scurried away noiselessly. He'd just have to take it by feel, then. Hopefully the intruder would still be in the building by the time he made it over.

* * *

><p>Selina crouched just under the window, feeling ridiculous and a little nervous in her new "suit." Nashton had gone over the specifics with her almost gleefully, like a kid showing off his new toys at Christmas. And she had to admit, it was impressive. The military-developed, ultralight pleather was woven with Kevlar, strong enough to stop a slow-moving bullet and blunt an attacker's knife; the retractable "claws" in her gloves were industrial-grade sharpened steel tipped with synthetic lonsdaleite. And, of course, the mask. It had been styled after the Batman's, with stylized cat ears and a pull-up "cowl" that left her jaw exposed. Nashton had put a lot of time and thought into the costume- and wherever he'd managed to get it, it had obviously been expensive.<p>

She'd modified the outfit herself as well, adding her own infra-red goggles and trusty whip to Nashton's ensemble. And, of course, she'd swapped his little electronic "toys" for her own. Even though Selina hadn't found a single tracking device in the clothing, she didn't quite trust Edward Nashton.

And now she was here, aiming a mock-up rifle into the Wayne Enterprises boardroom and waiting for the Batman to make a rare daytime appearance. According to Nashton, he wouldn't fail to show up- but Selina doubted it. The Batman operated at night; everyone knew that. A whole platoon of police cars veered around the corner, sirens wailing, and Selina stood up. Damn it. He hadn't shown, and she was about to get arrested dressed like a- a dominatrix. Screw Nashton's plan- she was getting out while she still could.

Selina moved carefully, lithely behind the door and listened. The hallway was empty. Good. She stepped out, scanned the area for possible security cameras, and began to run. Two stories up, she paused to wait and listen outside an empty conference room. Most of these offices and meeting rooms were vacant, thank God, but she still had to be careful. Somewhere in the building, a door burst open and she could almost hear the cries of "Freeze! Police!"

She sighed. It was almost a disappointment; she'd been a little curious herself to see what this guy looked like.

"There's always tomorrow," she muttered to herself, and turned back to the staircase.

The elevator was coming. She just had time to register the little light moving from eleven to twelve before it stopped and the door slid open. And there he was. Selina froze.

He was bigger than she'd expected, not grossly pumped but definitely muscular. Sharp fins on his gauntlets, an array of unknown- but probably painful- gadgets on his belt, Kevlar padding out the wazoo- she'd have to be careful with this guy. However, for the moment he seemed as stunned as she was. He just stood there, expressionless. Not one to waste the opportunity, Selina flung the door open and leaped into the stairwell. Just inside, she swung around behind the door and waited until he charged through, a few seconds behind her. He was fast, too.

Selina sprung forward and nailed him between the shoulders with a flying kick. The Batman tumbled forward, off-balance, but caught himself a few steps down the stairs. He turned, quicker than she'd been expecting, and assumed a variant on the guard stance.

"Who are you?" he rasped. "Why are you trying to kill Lucius Fox?"

"What makes you think I was gunning for Fox?" she replied. "You're awfully quick to jump to conclusions, aren't you?"

He just stood there, blinking, but ready. Everything about this guy screamed action, and Selina found herself falling into a defensive position as well.

"Maybe I wasn't trying to kill anyone," she said. "Maybe I just wanted a better-"

Now. His guard was slipping, and she lunged forward with claws extended. To the Batman's credit, he reacted with admirable quickness. They sparred beautifully, precisely, before falling apart to watch one another from a distance.

"You're good," he growled. "Karate training?"

"I could ask you the same," she said. "Though if I had to guess... I'd say there's a healthy dose of wing chun strike in there."

As if on cue, they drew together again. Selina leaped high, gracefully, stabbing at him with both claws. The Batman bent backwards at a near-impossible angle, his hands barely missing her feet as she flew over his shoulder.

"Personally, I prefer choi kwang-do," she remarked, retracting her claws and secretly admiring the cold snick they made. "But you make a good case for the rigid arts."

"If you didn't mean to kill anyone, you won't mind talking to the police," he said, reaching for something in his belt. Uh-oh.

"Sorry, handsome," Selina smirked. "I place a high value on my independence."

Before he could use whatever-it-was, she lunged at him, the claws sliding back out and slicing cleanly between two armor plates on his upper arm. With the other hand, she pulled a gas pellet from her own belt and threw it down, careful to hold her breath. She and the Batman were suddenly engulfed in thick, choking smoke. It wouldn't be much of a visual distraction, but the mild irritant in the gas would slow him down a little. Selina broke free of the cloud, landed a good, hard kick to the Batman's side, and watched him tumble back down the stairs to the nearest landing.

"See you around, Batman," she called, mockingly, and turned to go.

On the landing, the Batman coughed and choked, his eyes watering uncontrollably.

* * *

><p>"Commissioner, this is Harvey Bullock!" the big detective yelled into his cell phone. "I'm right outside the Multigon building, we got a sniper ID'd as the Bat! Yeah, I thought you'd want to know right away! Sure thing!"<p>

He flipped the phone shut and turned to the nearest police officer, a lean, spare man with a heavy squint.

"Hey, you! Carlyle! We set up a perimeter yet?"

"Yes, sir! We've got all exits covered, SWAT team's on the way!" Carlyle fired back.

"Good deal. You sure it's the Batman?"

"Absolutely. O'Connor saw him exiting a, uh, manhole behind the building," said Carlyle.

"Yeah? Where's O'Connor?"

"Headed to the hospital!"

Bullock grimaced. Dirty scum. It was bad enough that this cop killer was still on the streets, but his regular beatdown on Gotham's finest was making the force look bad. And that tended to make the men feel bad, which tended to make them work bad. They needed to nail this sonofa- a movement in one of the upper windows caught Bullock's eye, and he stopped.

"There he is. Eleventh floor," he said. "No- dammit, Carlyle, he's in the stairwell!"

"Doesn't matter. We've got teams stationed at every exit," Carlyle said. "We've got him trapped in there with nowhere to go."

"Nowhere but up! Ya lousy bunch of- cover me, Carlyle, I'm going in!"

Huffing and puffing, Bullock slid to a stop in front of the elevator- which was currently rising from the twelfth floor. With a grim smile and a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure nobody was watching, he reached into the left pocket of his trenchcoat and began digging around. This yielded six fun-size candy wrappers, an expired Subway coupon, three loose cigarettes, a crumbled Saltine cracker, and- at last- the old fireman's override key he'd filched from his last partner. Bullock jammed it into the elevator slot and pressed the up arrow.

The little light on the elevator slowed, hesitated at thirteen, and began to descend. Bullock nodded, satisfied.

"Gotcha, ya damn vigilante." he muttered. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his sidearm, taking off the safety and chambering a round. Then he stepped to one side of the elevator, out of sight, and waited.

The elevator stopped. The doors slid open. Bullock jumped out, weapon drawn.

"Freeze, Batman!" he shouted.

Something long and black and sinuous curled through the air and knocked the gun from his hand before his mind even registered-

That he had made a very big mistake. Because this was not the Batman.

She was a woman- every inch a woman- in what could only be described as a black leather catsuit. With matching whip. Bullock's mouth fell open, and suddenly a blow to the face sent him reeling backwards. The... woman... cartwheeled backwards in an obvious taunt.

"All right, lady, put your hands up!" Bullock yelled. "This is the police!"

"And here I thought it was Sam Spade," she returned. "Sorry, boys, I can't stay long. If you want someone to play with, your friend in the cape is still wiping his eyes on the eleventh."

Bullock hesitated, torn. Apprehend the sexy lunatic nutbag in the cat costume or go after the murderous lunatic nutbag in the bat costume? The woman smiled at him under the mask and settled the matter by kicking him squarely in the stomach. Bullock let out a heavy WHOOSH and doubled over, clutching his stomach.

"Have fun," the woman called, racing down the hallway.

"Oof," groaned Bullock, still seeing stars. And then he realized- she'd taken his gun. Slowly, he straightened up and reached for his com radio. "It's gonna be one of those days," he muttered.


	13. The Catwoman

"Gotham PD was unable to apprehend either the Batman or, as detective Harvey Bullock described her, the 'cat woman' sighted near Wayne Tower this morning," Summer Gleeson said, staring straight into the camera. "According to Bullock, Gotham may have a new vigilante. A police photographer managed to capture this picture-" a still frame of a buxom, black-suited cat burglar fleeing down an alley filled the screen- "and Police Commissioner James Gordon is offering a reward for information on this woman."

"That's awful, Summer," Jack Ryder put in. "We've got enough problems with the Batman at large; let's hope the Dark Knight hasn't started a trend." He laughed suavely, ignoring the slight look of irritation from Summer. "Again, people of Gotham, call this number if you have any information on the Catwoman. This is Jack Ryder from Gotham Live saying _Good night, Gotham!"_

The cameras panned away, the theme music swelled and climaxed, and Jack Ryder breathed out a long sigh.

"I thought that went well," he commented.

"Well?" Summer Gleeson rolled her eyes. "'The Dark Knight?' 'The Catwoman?' This isn't Excess Hollywood anymore. We're a real news station; we report cold, hard facts, not sensational hype! Theatrical nicknames like that are just... cheesy."

Ryder laughed and shook his head.

"Summer, sweetie," he said. "You just don't understand the appeal. Everyone likes a little drama now and then."

* * *

><p>Batman paused for a moment at the edge of the fall. To his left, the sunset was bleeding red and orange into Gotham Harbor. To his right, the empty Multigon tower watched him with dead and empty eyes. After the run-in with... <em>her... <em>he'd retreated to the Manor and gone over hundreds of rap sheets, police records, even rumors. No luck. Her outfit was a pun on 'cat burglar.' That might explain the E. Nigma name. E. Nigma. Edward Nigma. Edward Nashton? Maybe. The narcissistic cryptographer was too smart for his own good. And Alfred had shown him a Youtube sensation- GOTHAM POLICEMAN SENDS OUT MORSE CODE. _(Look this is amazing Im not shitting u guys. Totally epic!)_ There were two videos now, the second entitled AMAZING MORSE CODE RIDDLER. And the riddles made Bruce uneasy, to say the least.

What falls but never breaks? What breaks but never falls? Dusk falls but never breaks. Dawn breaks but never falls. Two riddles, paired, with answers that were both polar opposites... and the same. And Dent's psyche had broken just before he took a long and bloody fall.

But Edward Nashton didn't run around at night dressed like a cat. And Nashton didn't trade stock tips with Rupert Thorne. Whoever this cat woman might be, she'd definitely been in touch with the untrustworthy businessman. E. Nigma's room had been equipped not with a rifle, but a laser scope, a mirror, even a computer left behind. The hard drive was clean, but Lucius had salvaged enough to know that 'Catwoman' had sent three recent emails to one of Thorne's satellite companies. Bruce had waited until dark before donning the suit again and heading out. He'd start with Thorne, find out what he could, and work backwards to identify the woman.

Batman stretched out his arms, leaned forward slightly, and let himself fall.

Ten feet down, he reached for the grapple, shot it, and swung out and away with a soft, windy rustle. Below, a few homeless drifters saw the shadow and looked up. The first turned and bolted down the alley. The second rubbed his eyes and dropped his wine bottle. Batman soared into the alley just as it shattered.

Somewhere between the Palisades and the Sprang River, Batman alighted on a ornately carved ledge on the Old Gotham Jewelry Exchange. Putting one foot atop a snarling gargoyle, he leaned forward and touched the magnification button on his cowl. His vision jumped ten feet forward, focusing on a single lit window in the Thorne Trading & Stocks Corporate Headquarters. Bingo. The CEO's office. Inside, Rupert Thorne hadn't bothered to pull the blinds, and was clearly visible.

"Find everyone you're looking for?" Alfred's sudden voice almost made him jump.

"Not a good time, Alfred," Batman growled. "I'm outside Thorne Inc's office. I can see Rupert Thorne... seems to be having an argument with one of his lackeys. A small guy, greying, dumpy, wears a tuxedo..."

"Ah. Sounds like Arnold Wesker. Connected to the old Murder Inc mob by family, went through a string of failed jobs before ending up... well, they won't say it in so many words, but he's Mr. Thorne's personal business consultant."

"Business consultant?" said Bruce, shifting positions. "I thought you said he was business failure."

"I did, sir. There's not much information on him available in the usual places- no criminal record, no long-term employment. Shall I pass the case along to Mr. Fox? I'm sure he can dig something up one way or another."

Batman drew in a sharp breath and stood up quickly. Wesker had just left the office, probably headed downstairs.

"No need, Alfred. I'm going to have a heart-to-heart with Wesker, find out what he knows."

On the street below, a small man in a worn tuxedo stepped out a side entrance. There was a rustle and a quick movement of shadow, and the Batman left the ledge. The wind rippled over his cowl and rustled his cape as he swung across the street and landed, maybe not noiselessly but much more quietly, on a fire escape. Batman stood up, retracted the grapple, and began moving noiselessly down the escape towards the alley Wesker had entered.

Despite all his care, the little man must have heard him. Wesker kept glancing over his shoulder, cocking his head as if listening for something. So much for the element of surprise. Bruce took a few steps back, got a running start, and landed, dramatically, just in front of Wesker. The little bookkeeper gasped and began shaking. Batman almost felt sorry for the man. He was a pitiful creature: a pasty-faced, weak-shouldered little businessman in a rumpled tuxedo and Coke bottle glasses. Unfortunately, he was also working for Rupert Thorne. Batman grabbed Wesker in a bear hug and grappeled upwards. Wesker screamed.

"Arnold Wesker," Batman growled, depositing his miserable load on the tarry rooftop. "I want some answers. Now."

"Yes, yes, okay, anything you say!" Wesker almost sobbed. "Dear God, oh, please don't kill me!"

"Thorne hired a thief to steal information from Wayne Enterprises, didn't he?"

"Wh-wh-" Wesker's eyes darted from side to side. "I don't know!"

Batman grabbed him by the collar and pulled him in for an intensely angry glare.

"That's _not _the answer I _want!"_

"Aaaaaaaah! No, no! Okay, yes. Yes, he hired a thief!"

"Who!"

"I... it was a woman! I d-don't know the name. I-I-I never knew the n-name. I-I, I swear!" Wesker was actually crying by now, his thick glasses askew. "I t-t-t-told him it w-was a bad idea... a bad idea! P-please, I don't know anything! He's the one who pulls the strings!"

Batman scowled. Perhaps Thorne was the puppet master, but that didn't let Wesker off the hook.

"But you help him make decisions," he rasped. "Tell me, Wesker! Is Thorne Inc connected to the mob?"

"Ah— ah—" Wesker seemed to be gasping for air. "I—yes! Yes, I'm so sorry!" A hunted look came into his eyes. "You can't hide from him. He's- he knows. He'll find out I talked to you!"

"Not if you don't tell him," Batman said. "Now look at me, Wesker! Look at me! Is Thorne connected with Black Hand?"

"Oh- Thorne- no, no, he's not! There's... someone else. Smarter than Thorne. Someone... Thorne... uhhh."

Wesker's eyes rolled up and he went limp in Bruce's grip. The crimefighter ground his teeth and lowered Wesker to the rooftop. Damn! He had been so close, too… well, if Wesker wouldn't talk, maybe Rupert Thorne would. He clicked the magnification lens back on and began estimating the angle of approach to—

"Well, well. Funny meeting you here," a cool voice quipped from behind him. "I'd never have picked you for a bully."

Bruce turned. There she stood, tantalizingly close, clad in skintight black pleather and holding a nondescript velvet bag in one hand. The other hand held what looked like a coiled blacksnake bullwhip. Unbelievable.

"And speaking of bullies," she said, "why not pick on someone your own size?"

Out of instinct, Bruce ducked. The air seemed to explode around him as the whip lashed overhead. But she was only cracking it, not genuinely aiming for him. It was either a warning or—a black-armored fist slammed into Bruce's torso, almost knocking the wind from him despite the Kevlar padding. A distraction.

"And if you want 'answers,'" the woman said, deftly dodging a blow and dancing backwards out of reach, "why not ask me directly? I'm more than used to dealing with… _questions."_

"I didn't know you'd be here," Bruce returned. He edged forward, wary. She moved fast. "Who are you?"

"Who are you?" she returned. Batman lunged forward, but she backflipped away with ease. "Age before beauty."

"I'm the Batman."

"Uh-huh, sure. That's not a name. Just a symbol."

He reached to his belt and grabbed the tiny steel batarangs. Holding one at the ready, he tried again.

"I take it you're the thief employed by Rupert Thorne."

"Rupert and I have an agreement," she shrugged. "But seriously, Batman… what harm does a little insider trading do? Hmmm? Other companies do it all the time. If you want to arrest me, you're going to have to arrest half of Gotham's business force as well."

Batman narrowed his eyes, focusing on the small velvet bag in her left hand.

"Did you just steal from the Jewelry Exchange?" he growled.

She laughed, circling him.

"Well, they certainly didn't give it to me." She held up the bag, drew out something heavy that swung and sparkled and shone. "Beautiful, isn't it? They call it the Eye of Bast."

Now. He charged her, knocking her off-guard and off-balance, and seized the necklace. She recovered quickly and came back to spar with him. Below, a red-and-blue light came around the corner and headed slowly up the street.

"It's going back to the Exchange," he growled. "And you're coming with me!"

She opened her mouth to reply, but just then, there was a quick blast of police siren, and a searchlight swept the building.

"You got one right," she retorted, and landed a high kick across his jaw. Bruce saw stars and stumbled backwards.

"FREEZE! POLICE! HANDS WHERE WE CAN SEE THEM!"

Batman shook his head to clear it, spotted a lithe figure disappearing over a nearby slanted roof, and leaped forwards to give chase. The wind was cold and stark against his skin; the night seemed to fly past him as he leaped, spread the cape, and glided to the tiled rooftop. It curved up steeply, the fake "Old Gotham" finish on an upscale antique dealer. Batman shot a grapple at a conveniently placed spar and pulled himself up. Just as his head cleared the peak…

BAM! She had been waiting for him. Bruce swung back, momentarily stunned. The necklace was gone.

"Hmmm," she purred, dropping the jewelry into her belt pouch again. "Thanks for bringing it back."

Batman didn't say anything. He swung at her, still dangling, still in the air, tried to catch her, but she slipped back easily. Running lightly along the crest of the roof, she pulled out her whip, and, to Bruce's utter shock—and grudging admiration—lashed it around a protruding gargoyle. The whip's tip wrapped around the statue, the steel "popper" keeping the makeshift knot in place as the woman actually swung out and around the building. It was uncanny—like seeing himself in action. Bruce swung forward and tried to stand on the roof crest. His heavy armor, so advantageous in close-combat situations, was nothing but a liability up here. He slipped slightly, following her at a considerably slower pace.

* * *

><p>On a narrow ledge just over Old Gotham Park, Selina paused to catch her breath. Her heart was racing, pulsing—she hadn't had this much excitement in years. Stealing, yes, that was a thrill, but this was the first time she'd actually had a worthwhile chase. The security guards tired so easily, and it was disappointingly easy to elude the police. But here, tonight... the rush was twice as strong.<p>

She glanced back over her shoulder. No sign of him. Standing there, so young and vibrant against the ancient city stone, with Gotham laid out behind her in moonlight, an odd sensation overtook Selina. She felt_... _alive, really alive. Her senses were awake to the bright moon overhead, the delicious coolness of the stone against her back, the tantalizing glow of an open window across the way. Suddenly, beautifully, the night was real. From where she stood, she could see all of Gotham's dark beauty—sloping roofs, impossible arches, a tangle of construction sites, a jungle of rooftops with skyscrapers jutting up like alien trees, bridges, spars, old marble faces leering down from older buildings… viewed by night, viewed in the suit, Gotham City was a veritable wonderland. Her eyes seemed to focus, her hearing attenuate to the city's heartbeat. Every roof, every gargoyle, every leaf, every stone, every drop of water and metal bar was outlined in sharp moonlight. And it was all hers, all waiting for her. It was her playground, her jungle, her natural habitat.

"Enjoying the view?" a gravelly voice asked from behind her. She whirled around—and there _he _was, upside-down, hanging from his grappling—thing. Selina's heart gave a great leap.

"My God," she breathed, "it's you."

Before he could react—or right himself—she leaped off the ledge, flipping in mid-air off a nearby bracket of scaffolding, and landed on a flat rooftop. She took off running, aware that a giant, black-winged figure was gliding silently after her. Selina turned sharply, leaped to a hanging fire escape, and began to climb. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw something black and thin whip up after her, and swung athletically almost upside down. The grapple, which had been seeking her leg, clattered on the metal and fell back uselessly.

"Better luck next time," she called back tauntingly. She'd almost reached the open window. She had no idea who it belonged to, but she didn't care. In fact, it would almost be more fun if they did fight back. Tonight, in the night, she was invincible.

Something sharp and small flew by her head, glittering like ice, and stuck into the building. Selina grabbed it- a Bat-shaped shuriken, how droll- and whipped into the window, landing on a cluttered desk. A few feet away, an exhausted clerk stared at her with a mix of amazement, fear, and lust.

"Who-"

Selina didn't wait for him to finish, just leaped over his head and out the door. Behind her, there was a clatter as the clerk's chair tipped over. Selina turned and ran down the hallway. Halfway down, a fortyish manager stepped out of one of the offices. His jaw dropped, and he held up his clipboard as in self-defense. A quick lash from the whip had him out of the way as Selina rushed down the hallway.

* * *

><p>On the roof, Batman waited. She'd ducked into one of the offices of the Vreeland Hotel Corporate headquarters, and the famous Vreeland security would be mobilized shortly. He didn't dare go in after her; everyone knew Batman was a murderer. The security team aside, mild-mannered desk jockeys and office managers tended to get a heroic streak when murderers showed up.<p>

But the security could work in his favor. They'd lock down all exits, including access windows, and swarm the building in pairs. They'd flush her out. And when she got to the roof... he'd be waiting.

The roof access door flew open, and the Catwoman burst out, laughing and clutching... a briefcase? She was still looking over her shoulder, and Batman stepped into her path and siezed her wrist. Almost immediately, she slipped free, nearly knocked him another good one, and leaped acrobatically onto the small access building.

"Come down from there," he ordered. "Come down. I'm tired of playing cat-and-mouse."

"Wouldn't that be cat-and-_bat?_" Selina replied. "And no, I'm not coming down. I think we've been over this. Why don't you come and get me?"

He stepped back, glaring at her, and she actually chuckled. Stretching with feline grace, she lowered herself into a relaxed pose and dangled the briefcase tantalizingly near the edge of the roof. Batman narrowed his eyes, sizing her up. She looked at ease, at rest, but there was a taut readiness in her body, in the curve of her legs and the deceptively lax posture. She was like a coiled spring under velvet.

"You know," she almost purred, "you're a piece of work. What kind of man dresses up like a giant bat?"

"What kind of woman dresses up like a cat?" he rasped.

"I'm starting to wonder myself," she said. "I bet you and I have some stories we could share. What do you say? My place or yours?"

"The only place you're going," he growled, "is prison."

"And I thought my boyfriend had a one-track mind," said Catwoman, twitching the whip a little. "What's wrong with you, anyway? Do you even know who owns the Eye of Bast? Or, should I say, owned it. Veronica Vreeland. Richest girl in town. I'm sure she has lots and lots of insurance on it... and I promise to put the money to good use. She'll just have it replaced with paste and no one will know the difference. Stealing from the ultra-rich is a victimless crime, Batman. Surely even you know that."

"It's stolen. Property."

She sighed.

"I can already tell you're an excellent listener. You ought to know, Batman, that this emerald has been stolen over six times, cost four lives, and wrecked countless marriages. The senior Mr. Vreeland only bought it for his wife because he was having an affair with her best friend. You should thank me- I'm taking it out of circulation."

"And the briefcase?"

"Funny story. I found the estimable Mr. Hamilton about to put this in the false bottom of his desk drawer and..." she shrugged. "Liberated it. Why don't you go ask him? I'm sure he's forgotten about the whole incident."

Batman scowled and began circling. No matter what the sly feline said, she was a thief- robbing twice in a single night- and a spy. She needed to be stopped.

"You stole that briefcase," he said. "That's against the law."

"Yes, it is. But what is the law in this town?" She shook her head and laughed. "Listen, if you want to catch a real thief, go after the black-suited bigwigs in Multigon and LexCorp. Daggett Industries. Janus Cosmetics. Wayne Enterprises. That's where the real money is."

"Wayne is not a thief!"

She raised an eyebrow, her lips quirking upwards.

"Friend of yours?"

Bruce ground his teeth and cursed silently. He couldn't afford to give her an opening. Not now.

"You're coming with me," he growled.

"Maybe. But not today!"

She tossed something, and Bruce had just enough time to whip his cape in front of his eyes before it went off with a blinding flash. He threw the cape aside, only to be met by a wall of choking smoke. The Catwoman was gone.

* * *

><p>Thanks to all those who review! The people asked for more BatCat interaction, and a longer chase scene- here it is, proof that I really do listen!

On a similar note, I use this fic as my writing exercise- any tips and critique would be greatly appreciated! No pressure, but a quick "I'd like to see" or "I think you could better" would make my day.


	14. The SetUp

There were three videos now. GOTHAM POLICEMAN SENDS OUT MORSE CODE. AMAZING MORSE CODE RIDDLER. DOUBLE RIDDLER (SIDE BY SIDE) HIDDEN MESSAGE. _Here is riddles from Gotham Policeman and amazing Mores Code Riddler- spliced. When Dots and dashes line up, NEW MESSAGE reavealed._

New message revealed. With both hands synced, a new message could, indeed, be roughly estimated-

b r o k e n t d e n k n i w h t e i g h t

A particularly bright YouTuber, findthehiddenproblem8, had already solved the ridiculously simple anagram.

h a r v e y d e n t b r o k e n k n i g h t.

Commissioner Gordon leaned back from his computer and lifted a hand to his forehead, stunned.

This couldn't be happening. It simply... couldn't be happening. It was a hallucination. Perhaps he'd unwittingly handled some of the evidence tainted with ex-Dr. Crane's fear toxin.

"What's this, Commish?"

The whole desk shook as Harvey Bullock sat down next to the laptop, stuffing a fast-food taco in his mouth. Commissioner Gordon jumped and quickly closed the web browser.

"Ah, those kinda videos," Harvey nodded. "Sorry, none of my business."

Gordon flushed.

"It's not... what you think," he mumbled.

Tactfully, Bullock said nothing and handed the Commissioner a thin manila folder with a few crumbles of lettuce and cheese crumbs on top. A taco sauce thumbprint adorned the upper righthand corner; Gordon took the folder somewhat awkwardly to avoid touching it.

"Catwoman?" he questioned, reading the name. "Are you sure?"

"'Fraid so. We got not one, not two, but _three _affydavit eyewitnesses that the, uh, Catwoman was hangin' around both the Old Gotham Jewelry Exchange and the Vreeland Hotel Corporate Headquarters. Incidentally, the Exchange was robbed. Miss Vreeland's 'Eye of Bast' emerald necklace. And Batman was seen chasin' the kitty up a skyscraper."

"No kidding," said Gordon, flipping open the folder. "Gives a new meaning to the phrase 'cat burglar.'"

"Don't you start," Harvey groaned. "The guys at profiling have been making a bunch o' dumb puns- 'Don't worry about how she got away, a cat always lands on its feet' 'Maybe we should put out a saucer of milk.' And don't get me started on th' catcalls..."

"Yes... she's certainly not dressing inconspicuously," Gordon said, holding up a blurry, action-lined photograph. "Is that a whip?"

"You bet. Never saw her use it, though." Harvey sucked the last of the taco into his mouth and reached for a second one. "Ya should hear Nashton. He knows every little thing about her, almost, cause it's so damn obvious. She's a pro thief for sure, used to climbing up buildings and what have you. He's sure she's not working with the Batman, she's the hot new freak in town- uh, I mean, that didn't come out quite right. Called her the new player on the board. Dynamic has shifted, he said. We need to work the case in a new direction."

Gordon swiveled his chair around sharply, his brows lowering.

"Is Nashton trying to take over your case, detective?" he snapped. "I told him to stay off of that."

Harvey shrugged.

"Eh... he meddles in everything, Commish. Nashton's irritating, sure, and he's got a head th' size of Rhode Island, but he does decent work. You still sore about him talking with the mayor over your head?"

"This isn't about that, it's about the chain of command," Gordon snapped. "I told Nashton to ease off the Batman case, and if he's still-" Gordon stopped and shook his head. "Never mind. You said he was helping you with this Catwoman character?"

"Sure. Had the idea to cross-reference some old Interpol records. We got four possible suspects..." Harvey paused to swallow his taco. "I got Jones and Shelby workin' on it now."

* * *

><p>"Lucius was able to cross-reference several Interpol records. Four possible IDs for our Catwoman, women who match the approximate age and body type and have a similar criminal record," Bruce said. "But he also did some private checking. One is dead, one is happily married several thousand miles away, and one is still in a federal prison. Which leaves us with..." he tapped a few keys and a pixelated security picture of a female ninja scaling a building popped up onto the flat screen.<p>

"Oh, my," Alfred said. "I do see what you mean about the whip. Some men would find it rather... exciting."

"This was taken two years ago in the Chicago financial district," said Bruce, ignoring the comment. "She was videotaped stealing large amounts of jewels from an illicit diamond smuggler. The police never caught up her."

"Begging your pardon, sir, but... I don't see any cat costume on your Chicagoan burglar."

Bruce slid back on his chair and looked at his butler.

"Maybe she had a change of heart."

* * *

><p>"Ah, if it isn't the enchanting Miss Selina Kyle." Edward Nashton smiled and leaned back in his chair, taking a sip of his orange juice. Behind him, a pair of black guillemots stalked to the edge of glass, circling each other warily, before plunging into the clear water. "I knew you'd make it. So tell me, how'd the first date go?"<p>

"You tell me," Selina retorted. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and glared at him. "And why the change of venue? If you're trying to impress me, there are cheaper lounges in Gotham."

"Oh, no, actually," Nashton said calmly, "I know the owner. He was- ah- happy to let me use the spare booth. But you still haven't answered my question. How did it go?"

"If you're asking, did I run into Batman, the answer is yes," Selina said. "Actually, I did Thorne a favor. The Bat was roughing up one of the minor accountants."

"Ah, yes, the estimable Mr. Arnold Wesker," nodded Nashton. "You know he's actually the mastermind behind the Black Hand gang."

"What?"

"Oh, it's quite simple. Wesker convinced Thorne to split the old gang- half the resources flow into a cover corp, the other half goes into a gang by a new name. The Black Hand." Edward tipped his glass upwards and drank the last of the juice. "Mr. Thorne- or should I say Councilman- runs the legitimate business front. Well, fairly legitimate. He did hire you, after all."

"So who manages Black Hand?" Selina asked.

"Ah, ah, ah. That would be telling." Nashton gave her a sharp, smug smile. "But you know, darling, I didn't actually call you up here to tell you that."

"What a surprise," muttered Selina.

"No, you see, I've managed to secure a pair of invitations to a very exclusive party. And, well, quite frankly, I need a date."

"You want me to get inside someone's safe."

"Close." Edward Nashton leaned forward, eyes glinting. "I want you to get inside someone's mind."

"Oh, great. Let me guess- you're investigating some rich bastard and need someone to get close to him?" Selina shook her head. "I really don't do that kind of work anymore, Edward."

"Oh, yes you do. You do it without thinking, darling, the same way you crack the bedroom door for the cat every night and reach for the gun that isn't there... when you feel threatened." Nashton brought his hand out from under the table and twirled the tiny revolver around his finger. Selina snatched it from him.

"You've been spying on me," she growled. "Bastard."

Edward Nashton just laughed.

"Come on, kitten. You didn't think I'd go into business with a partner I didn't know everything about?"

"Didn't anyone tell you about playing with fire?" she shot back.

"I could ask you the same," he replied smugly. "Selina Kyle, my dear, I know every inch of your less-than-perfect past... and present. Recall, if you will, that I can bring you down with a word, and will not hesitate to throw you to the dogs at the slightest sign of betrayal."

Selina scowled at him and settled back into her seat.

"Expensive suit," she muttered.

"But worth it," Nashton finished.

* * *

><p>"By the way, sir," Alfred said, setting a serving tray with a glass of orange juice down next to the billionaire, "Lucius Fox called earlier. Something about a, ah, someone wanting to use the Manor for a fundraiser...?"<p>

"Oh?" Bruce looked up from the console. "Who is it?"

"A Dr. Thomas Elliot."

"Tommy," said Bruce.

"You remember him," Alfred said. "Yes, he apparently wants to throw a fundraiser bash benefiting the new Harvey Dent Memorial Hospital."

"And he wants the Manor..."

"For its opulence. Its prominence. Its... legendary status. And perhaps as a way to extend the hand of friendship as well."

Bruce considered it.

"Do I want to accept the hand of friendship?" he asked. "Would you recommend it?"

Alfred nodded, shrugged, nodded again.

"He was a great friend of your father's," he said.

* * *

><p>Gordon filled out the incident report, lines and lines of loose, curving handwriting.<p>

_suspect the Catwoman may be working with Batman but unsure_

Something cream-colored and stiff and gilt-edged slid across the desk and stopped in front of him. Gordon looked up.

"What's this?" he said.

"Invitation," Bullock said, waving another card and cradling a Giant Gulp. "I got one, too. So'd Flass and Nashton. It's a fundraiser, at Wayne Manor. The proceeds go to..."

Gordon nodded, trying to look interested. His mind was racing. Nashton had an invitation?

"...probably have to rent a suit," Bullock finished ruefully. "Whaddya say, Commish? Want me to R.S.V.P.?"

Hesitantly, Gordon nodded. Yes. Something was off, but he couldn't act without information first. If Nashton was staging an enormous expose, he needed to be ready. He needed to anticipate the clever cryptographer's next move.

"Go ahead. Rent the suit," he said. "I'll have Barb brush off the old tuxedo."

"Great. By th' way, Nashton's been a lifesaver on the Catwoman case. Just saying. I mean, I know you guys ain't pals, but..."

Gordon nodded, trying to look interested. His thoughts were racing. Nashton suspected the Batman. Nashton had started to unravel the... cover, the shield. But now he was interested in a petty theft case? Interested enough to direct his energies away from the Batman, at least... perhaps Catwoman had replaced the vigilante as the object of Nashton's obsession.

"In fact, I was able to get th' records from Chicago PD. Turns out this lady was quite the nuisance for jewelers and such-"

No. Much as he wanted to believe it, Gordon knew it was impossible. Nashton was too damn smart for that. But he seemed to know quite a lot about the Catwoman. Suspicious? Definitely. Reason for concern? Possibly.

"...go over four profiles. Want me to call the lab? Hey, Commissioner. Commissioner?"

It was a game. A twisted, cruel, and dangerous game. And Commissioner James Gordon was beginning to feel more and more like a pawn.

* * *

><p>Hey people,<p>

Sorry for the long wait! Things got too busy... and I could have posted last week, but I didn't want to put another half-assed chapter like the last one up. At least not in quick succession. Anyway, I hope to post multiple updates this weekend.


	15. Dance With Me

Wayne Manor was full of light. Champagne glasses threw off sparkling glints of amber, satin-clad women gleamed and twinkled, the magnificent chandeliers swayed slightly and filled the foyer with a warm, expensive shimmer. People mingled and talked, made jokes, laughed, asked about family members and bragged about children.

But Bruce Wayne was not in their midst. He'd gone through the perfunctory welcome, brought out the champagne and invited them all to drink his health, and retreated to the dark windows at the top of the stairs. A few of the more hopeful starlets had followed him at first, but they'd given up and returned to the happy throng below. Maybe he should have joined them.

"Hey there, handsome."

Bruce turned, startled.

"Selina," he said. "Sorry, I... wasn't expecting you."

"Oh? And who were you expecting?" she joked, resting a hand lightly on the banister.

She looked nice, Bruce noticed- tasteful black evening dress, dark hair swept off her neck in a loose ponytail, expensive perfume. And she was smiling. He smiled a little too, abashed.

"Um... nobody?" he tried. "I'm sorry. I just... have a lot on my mind."

"Mmm. Care to share it?"

Bruce smiled politely and shook his head. Not really.

"Mind if I guess?" she asked.

"What?" He hadn't been expecting that.

"If I guess what's on your mind..." she paused, smiling teasingly at him, "you have to do me a favor."

Again, he laughed a little skeptically.

"What kind of favor?"

"Well, you'll have to wait and see," she said, a bit mischievously. "Do you accept the challenge?"

"I... don't... sure. Why not."

"Well. I would say, Mr. Bruce Wayne, Prince of Gotham... you were having one of those moments you're never supposed to have, being a billionaire playboy with no worries and no fear. One of those moments, serious and a little sad... I saw you brush off that Californian choreographer a few minutes ago. You want to be alone... but not really, not truly." Selina put a finger to her lips, cocked her head, and looked at him like a doctor making a precise diagnose. "You're tired of her type. Tired of the mask. You want someone who's not afraid to tell you the truth. How'm I doing?"

"Close," Bruce said, forcing a smile, "but no cigar."

"Ooh! Breaking out the Freudian jokes already!" Selina said. "Then let me hazard a wild guess." She leaned forward, turning serious. "You watch the people down there laughing and kissing and holding each other tender, and... you want to be with them. You like that warmth, that light. But somehow, someway, you can't join them. I don't know exactly what it is that holds you back. Maybe... a secret. You were away from home for a long time; you picked up a few skeletons along the way. Maybe a confused self-identity. You're _the_ Bruce Wayne, after all, but you're getting tired of this life. But I think... I think it's because you lost something. Something very precious. Someone very dear to you. And now, you look and see them, together, and you think... you have no place with them."

Bruce didn't move, didn't even look up. He swallowed, twice. His eyes stung, but he would not allow them to water. He couldn't afford to look weak, especially at... a...

"That's... right," he said. "That's right."

Selina's hand was suddenly on his shoulder, gentle, soft. That was unusual. It was astounding how many women could touch a man without being soft- flirtatious and seductive touches Bruce was used to, but this, this warmth... He hadn't felt this way since R...

"That's it," Bruce repeated, swallowing hard. "That's... How did you know?"

Selina's eyes were suddenly very bright. She pressed her lips together slightly, and gave him a small, sad smile.

"You're not the first to lose someone, Bruce," she said. "And I'm sure you won't be the last. Everyone comes to a crisis point, everyone has their one bad day. It's... how you deal with it that matters."

"You had a bad day?" Bruce said, raising an eyebrow.

"Like you wouldn't believe," Selina said. "And I know how easy it is to get bitter- to try to cover it up, drown it, do something the make the pain go away. You need to be careful, Bruce. These women, fast cars, notoriety... just be careful that you don't become your mask. I speak from experience on this."

There was a moment of silence between them. Bruce looked up, a smile tugging at his lips.

"So. You won the bet. What's the favor?"

With a soft, fine laugh, Selina grasped his hand in hers.

"Dance with me." She tugged at him gently. "And don't feed me any lines about not knowing how. I saw you on Gotham Live, you know."

Bruce chuckled a little and let himself be led away from the window, down the steps- out of the corner of his eye, he saw Alfred stop, open his eyes a bit wider, and turn away with a smile. Bruce chuckled- he laughed- and took Selina's hand in his. And they danced.

* * *

><p>"Good evening, Commissioner."<p>

Gordon stopped, the smile fading from his face at the voice.

"Hello, Nashton," he said, not turning. "What do you want?"

"Besides answers? Nothing really." Nashton sidled into view, his eyes darting sharply over the Commissioner. The cryptographer had really dressed up for the night; Gordon didn't know what kind of suit he was wearing, but it was _nice. _He'd forgone his usual green tie for a thin indigo one, and he had a woman on his arm- a short, plump Hispanic woman looking uncomfortable in stiletto heels and a too-tight cocktail dress. The woman glanced at him, colored, and dropped her eyes. Gordon stiffened.

"Ramirez," he said. "I mean- I'm sorry. I haven't seen you since-"

"I was laid off, I know," Ramirez interrupted. "Please. I'm sorry. I did't mean-" Disengaging herself from Nashton's arm, she turned and stepped away in painful, unstable footsteps. Nashton shook his head, clicking his tongue disapprovingly.

"Pity," he said. "She seemed quite a nice, intelligent woman. But you can't gloss over old history."

"What's your game, Nashton?" Gordon said in a low voice. "What do you want?"

"What do I want? I want- the truth. Is that too much too ask?" Suddenly, Nashton was much closer to Gordon, his voice low and dangerous. "We'll talk when we get back to headquarters. I want to... ask you a few questions."

Before Gordon could react, he was gone, disappearing into the shining crowd with a merry wink and a smile that was anything but.

* * *

><p>Rupert Thorne was enjoying himself immensely. It was his second time in Wayne Manor within the month, and he'd already seen to the "discreet admittance" of several newspaper cameramen. Tomorrow, he would read all about himself in the newspapers. It was one of his guilty pleasures, that- but what man didn't like hearing his own praises? Charismatic, intelligent, a strong leader, ecologically informed, the businessman of tomorrow... the Gotham Herald loved Rupert Thorne. And he'd already joined the Mayor's HOPE campaign with his own slogan- Green Up Gotham. Of course, most of his "improvements"- new parks, high-efficiency machines for laundromats, solar panels for the city hall- were financed by the Black Hand's earnings. But nobody had to know that. The paper trail was a superhighway at least, thanks to-<p>

"H-h-hello, Mr. Thorne," came a high, weak, and all-too-familiar voice. Thorne's expression soured, and he turned slowly to see Wesker, still clad in his ill-fitting tuxedo and taped glasses, looking simultaneously hopeful, nervous, awed, and guilty. Thorne barely stifled a groan.

"How nice to see you, Wesker," he said, extending a hand and discreetly checking to make sure no one was watching. "I didn't think you were invited."

"Oh, no, I didn't either- I, I was actually quite surprised, but you see Dr. Elliott-"

The coast was clear. Thorne leaned in slightly and spoke in and undertone.

"Can it, Wesker. This isn't your party. If you still want to have a job tomorrow, you'll get your ass in gear and beat it. Understand?"

Wesker's face went very still. For a moment, he stood frozen, stiff, his eyes blinking rapidly behind the thick lenses.

"Yes sir, Mr. Thorne," he said at last, his voice flat and emotionless. "Right away, sir."

Thorne watched the little accountant's retreating back with satisfaction, and turned to greet the nearest guest.

* * *

><p>"Good evening, sir. I don't think we've had the pleasure," a smooth baritone voice said, right at Bullock's elbow.<p>

The big detective nearly coughed up his hors d'ouevre, and he covered his mouth with a napkin. Damn. He wasn't used to people getting the drop on him like that. He turned and saw a fat businessman in a shiny brown suit. The suit and tie said businessman, the sleazy smile and extended hand said politician, and the worn-out face said Mafia don. Bullock realized he was scowling and grabbed the man's hand.

"Harvey Bullock, Gotham P.D." It came out rougher than he'd intended, but he couldn't help noticing- the man had a manicure. A freakin' manicure. Definitely a politician- unless he was hidin' high heels under those penny loafers.

"Ah, one of the fine boys in blue," the man smiled. "Rupert Thorne, CEO of Thorne Inc. Or perhaps you know me as your new city councilman."

"Yeah?" Harvey said. "How much did that cost in campaign contributions?"

Thorne laughed, that easy, sleazy smile never leavin' his face.

"Good one, detective," he said. "I'll have to mention that one to the Mayor at our next lunch."

"You can try, but he really doesn't go in fer that kinda humor," Bullock shrugged. "Hey, don't I know you from somewhere? Stromwell- I saw you with Stromwell once. Right? The Vreeland shooting?"

"Sorry, it wasn't me," said Thorne. "I've never met Arnold Stromwell in my life."

"Ah, well, ya just must have one o' those faces," sighed Bullock.

"Come to think of it, so do you," Thorne said. "Haven't I seen you somewhere before? New York, I think. Ever know a man named Carl Grissom?"

"Nah, not me," Harvey replied. "Y'see..." He raised his champagne glass clumsily and tipped it all down his throat. "I got one o' those faces too."

They both laughed, genial and hearty and false.

* * *

><p>With a long flourish of bows, the string quartet in the corner concluded the piece and and dancers came to a temporary halt. Selina breathed out a long sigh and leaned a bit closer to Bruce Wayne.<p>

"Wow," he said. And then, "You're a fantastic dancer."

"Not too bad yourself, handsome," she replied. "But I guess a guy like you gets plenty of practice."

"Less than you'd think," he said, somberly.

Selina stopped, waited. It was so- so infuriating, and puzzling, and fascinating. One minute her date would be the brainless billionaire playboy, the next a reserved- a guarded- something, responding gradually to her banter and smiling like it was his first time in the sun. And then- something else would creep into his manner. His voice, maybe. It- deepened, became darker. Not sad, per se, not grieving... She put her head on one side and pursed her lips.

"You really shouldn't say things like that," she said. "It deepens the mystery, makes people curious. It makes people want to ask _Why?"_

He blinked for a moment, and she was about to clarify her statement when-

"Miss Kyle! Mr. Wayne! Good evening to both of you. I trust you're enjoying the dance?" Smiling, Edward Nashton inserted himself into the conversation, extending an amiable hand to Bruce and nodding to Selina.

"Yes, quite," Selina said, before Bruce could start. "And you, Edward, how... unexpected and surprising..."

"Yes, isn't it?" he returned. "Sorry to cut in, Mr. Wayne, but... may I have this _dance?"_

Selina looked at Bruce- he obviously didn't want to let her go- and back at Nashton. Hell no, she wasn't dancing with him. Despite the fact that Bruce Wayne was the type of man she would normally kiss and case, she... her curiousity was piqued. She didn't have "feelings" just yet, but she definitely wanted to know more. Bruce was rich, strong, handsome, interesting, and a good dancer. Nashton was an arrogant asshole with... definite proof of her past and little empathy for her. Biting back a scowl, Selina stepped away from Bruce Wayne and reluctantly held out a hand to Nashton.

"Sorry, Bruce," she called, as the music started up she began moving away. "This won't take a moment."

He moved her swiftly and skilfully across the ballroom- loathe as she was to admit it, he was a decent dancer- and waited until they were almost away from the other dancers to speak.

"Excellent work, darling," he said, leaning forward with adroit chivalry. "I daresay you've got Bruce wrapped around your little finger by now."

"Cut it out," Selina said, stepping back sharply. "What do you want, Nashton?"

"Ooh, having second thoughts, are we? Remember, dear, this is a case. Don't let yourself get caught up with him," Nashton said.

Selina clenched her jaw and smiled angrily at Nashton. So he was dictating her personal affairs now? Yeah, that was going to end well for him. Selina Kyle took orders from no one; she'd see who she damn well pleased.

"Careful, Eddie," she said evenly. "You're starting to look more and more like a scratching post."

He laughed at that, rocking in perfect time to the music, and moved forward again.

"Of course, dear. Whatever you say," said Nashton. "I'm just giving you a bit of friendly adv-"

"No, you're meddling in things that don't concern you," Selina said abruptly. "Look, we are business partners, nothing more, understood?"

Nashton's face soured slightly, but he recovered quickly and faced her with a smile.

"Of course," he said. "But we are business partners. I need you to get Wayne into his study. Alone. Can you do that?"

Selina raised an eyebrow.

"There's nothing of value in the study," she said. "Nothing you can carry, anyway."

"Can you do it?" repeated Nashton.

Selina glanced over her shoulder. Bruce was laughing uncertainly with an elderly businessman and trying to hide the frequent glances in her direction. She felt a faint twinge of regret, but quickly quashed it. Whatever Nashton wanted to steal while she distracted the playboy, it wouldn't be connected to her. She didn't even know what it was, and she'd have a rock-solid alibi- being with Wayne at the time of the crime. It would get Nashton off her back and still leave her free to play with Bruce. No harm done.

"Of course," she said. "Just give me five minutes."

* * *

><p>AN: Thanks so much for the reviews and suggestions! I really like knightmare's idea regarding Catwoman, but I've planned this arc out rather meticulously... you'll just have to wait and see if it makes it in. :)


	16. A Study in Shadow

"Wow..." Selina stopped and drew in her breath. "When you said you had a big study, you weren't kidding."

The room was at least the size of a two-car garage, with high, ornate windows facing eastward and a wall of books just opposite them. Between the bookshelves, a huge oak desk rested under a life-sized portrait of a woman. Selina paused and surveyed the picture with a critical eye.

"Actually, this is- this is my father's study," Bruce said, hurrying over to join her. He stopped and looked up at the picture. "That's my mother. The picture doesn't do her justice."

"It's true, madame."

Selina glanced over her shoulder- it was the butler. What was he doing here? The old man walked over and nodded at the picture.

"Mrs. Wayne was lovely in a way no artist could ever capture," he said. "But the family painter did an excellent job. You're very lucky to see it."

_He doesn't show it to many people._ Selina nodded, understanding, and swallowed away the slight misgiving in her stomach. Damn Nashton and his duplicity.

"Alfred," Bruce said. "What are you doing here?"

"Oh, well..." Alfred shifted his weight from one foot to another. "Your sudden disappearance has caused a slight- general inquiry among the guests. I thought I'd come see-"

"I'm fine, Alfred," said Bruce. "Tell them I'm with a friend. Privately."

Selina covered her smile with a hand and turned to inspect an ornate chess set on a nearby side table.

"Right away, sir. Shall I imply scandal outright, or let inquisitive minds reach their own conclusions?" the butler said.

"Oh- uh-"

"Very good, sir. I shall withhold both your whereabouts and the name of your companion." Alfred turned on his heels and strode away smartly, the huge door drifting shut slowly behind him.

"Does he help you like that often?" Selina asked. "Make decisions, I mean."

Bruce didn't look at her, just watched the door swing to and- click.

"More than you can imagine," he said. "Here. I'll show you to my study."

He walked over to the bookshelves and reached for a thick, leather-bound edition of the _Encyclopedia Brittanica. _Selina watched in fascination as he pulled back on it, and the enormous bookshelves slid slowly, silently apart.

"A secret door," she murmured. "The mystery deepens!"

"No mystery," Bruce said, striding through and pulling the light chain. "I just don't like being disturbed when I work."

"You work?" Selina said, half-joking. "And really, who is there around here to disturb you?"

"You'd be surprised," Bruce said, half under his breath.

This study was much more what she'd been expecting- a modest-sized man-cave with thick carpet, an oversized plush chair, and a heavy wooden desk under a portrait of both parents. The piano was a surprise, though; she walked over to it and plinked a key with one finger.

"Didn't pick you for the musical type," she said.

"I- I'm really not." He gently guided her hands away and shut the lid. "R- I knew someone who used to play, though."

"Rrrr?" Selina asked, and then, suddenly, understood. "Who was she?"

* * *

><p>Edward Nashton waited in the shadows, willing himself not to breathe as the butler's stern presence drifted by. Everything had gone well so far, but it was just the set-up. He'd left James Gordon sweating in front the Mayor, introduced Anna Ramirez to the visiting businessman Harold Ness, a.k.a. Coleman Reese, and sent Selina Kyle chasing after Bruce Wayne's heart... if only to spite Nashton. And Wesker had been ousted by his "boss." Nashton had originally planned to introduce Bullock to the shaky accountant, but the humiliation would do Wesker good. Nashton would just have to make sure Thorne didn't end up sleeping with the fishes when the coup finally took place. For a moment, he'd been worried, too, when Bullock seemed a bit too... aggressive.<p>

But he'd "never heard of Carl Grissom in his life!" Liar, liar, pants on fire. Bullock would serve his purpose beautifully; all it took was good timing. And speaking of which, it was high time to follow the lovebirds into their nest.

"Didn't pick you for the musical type," came Selina's soft voice.

"I- I'm really not."

Edward Nashton moved soundlessly into the doorway and into the corner of the bookshelf and desk. He hadn't come to take, no, he'd come to leave something behind. A sort of reverse burglar... what kind of thief... 'steal' spelled backwards... well, he'd have to work on that one. He slipped on his gloves, breathing shallow and quite. Delicately, he reached into his pocket and took out the folded napkin. Three beautiful little electronic ears, a way for him to hear without being present. Cheaply made, widely available, easily detected. He placed one on the underside of the desk. The other went into the earpiece of the phone.

"She was beautiful. Kind. Compassionate. She always saw the best in people..."

Yes, yes. We all know. She's dead, therefore she's perfect. And with all his senses distracted, Bruce wouldn't hear the soft click of the phone as it returned to the desk. Edward Nashton carefully, slowly, reached for the bookshelf and placed the third atop a dusty volume of Aristotle. Reaching into his pocket again, he drew out another device, larger, more expensive. Much more powerful. Barely detectable. He dropped it behind Aristotle and withdrew to the corner, smiling to himself.

When do you stop looking for a bug? When you've already found one.

And even if the estimable Mr. Wayne did find this one... well, it would already be too late. Nashton pulled himself into the shadows and waited.

* * *

><p>Halfway into their first kiss, Selina was caught between elation, desire, and guilt. Coming to the secret study was bad enough, like the time Christopher Simmons from second grade had shyly, awkwardly, showed her his diary, and she'd seen SELINA IS THE PRETTIEST GIRL I NO surrounded by hearts and ninja swords. Hearing about Rachel Dawes was worse, even though Selina had heard rumors about Bruce and Rachel, and seen her picture in the library. But then he'd really fallen for her. No, not even that- it wasn't puppy love (from Bruce Wayne? hell no!) or physical desire or even (deceptively) mutual attraction or even so-called love.<p>

It was trust. A horrible, intimate trust that made them, suddenly, more than friends. He'd dropped the act and let her see the scars...

...and she wanted to help him. Damn it, she actually cared about. It wasn't physical attraction (well, not all), or the "fringe benefit" of having playboy billionaires pay her attention and fund her high style. She'd developed flings before, but this, this was something more. Something binding.

She could never let Nashton find out, never. Whatever he had planned for Bruce Wayne, she doubted it involved her staying with the billionaire for long. Which meant... she'd have to break it off with Nashton. Joy.

Selina pulled back and reluctantly ended the kiss with a sigh. Oh, Bruce, Bruce...

"Bruce," she said softly. "We..."

"Don't say it," he said, his voice oddly muffled. "Don't stop. Don't ever stop."

Selina paused, conflicted. The silence was intense; he wanted her to say... something, something. Quickly, gracefully, she leaned forward and kissed his neck, just below the hard jawline.

He looked at her, his eyes searching hers, and- relaxed. Somewhere in the distance, a firecracker exploded faintly, followed by muffled cheers. The moment ended.

"They're already setting off the fireworks," Selina said. "Guess someone put two and two together about us..." she smiled mischievously.

"No," Bruce said, smiling too. "It's just the end of the party. Tommy'll make a last speech, probably quote Socrates or Aristotle or something, drink more of my wine, and..." he gestured as if to toast. "Alfred will show them all off within the hour."

"I should probably be going, then," said Selina, and waited.

"No-" Bruce moved in close, suddenly awkward again. "No, I mean, you can stay here... if you want."

"Well..." Selina paused. It couldn't hurt, could it? And besides, Edward Nashton would probably be waiting for her in the lobby, offer to "escort her home..." she bit her lip to keep from scowling. She couldn't stand to put up with his pompous threats again tonight. "If it won't be a bother..."

"No bother at all," Bruce said. He moved past her to the exit and pushed open the door. Beyond, fireworks were bursting from the high windows, lighting the sky with green and purple. "I'll have Alfred make up the guest wing."

"Guest _wing?"_

He shrugged and stepped into the library.

"It's not that big. Actually started as the servants' quarters..."

They moved out into the night together, remarkably unaware of the dark shadows streaming across the floor, pooling black against the wide bookshelves, filling the study doorway...

...even when something sparked in the darkness, a quick flash of grey or green, and a shadow moved.

They were out the library door, returning to warmth and light, by the time Edward Nashton walked to the piano, rolled back the lid, and removed a black penlight from his inner jacket. Time to get things started.

* * *

><p>AN: Aaaaand the ball starts rolling! No more setup; let's get to the punchline! Special thanks to the faithful reviewers, and watch for a second chapter tomorrow to make up for last week's failure.

Ahead: darkness, destruction, despair, duplicity, and a long drop.


	17. To Arkham

By the time they reached the station, James Gordon was dead tired. Bullock had had a glass of champagne too many, turned silent and sullen, and nearly insulted General Vreeland and his latest wife. By some horrible and malicious quirk of fate, Anna Ramirez had wound up sharing a table with Mayor Garcia, "bringing to his attention" the widespread anti-Latina discrimination in GCPD hiring policies. This, apparently, was all Gordon's fault, and he needed to make some appropriate hires ASAP. And Gordon hadn't even faced Nashton yet for their promised "talk."

Gordon flipped the wipers on as a few early drops spattered on the windshield. Beside him, Bullock shifted in the passenger seat, his nasal snoring never missing a beat. They were nearly back to headquarters. He'd already called Barbara and let her know it would be a long night. He needed to talk to Nashton.

Yes. No sense in waltzing around the issue. Nashton suspected something, and the smug bastard had a history of whistle-blowing. Gordon wouldn't let himself be bullied or threatened. He wouldn't put up with the cryptographer's snide insinuations. He'd push the confrontation, put Nashton on the defensive. He would... he would...

Gordon heaved a deep sigh and pulled into his reserved spot behind the headquarters. Nashton's white Acura Conundrum was already parked, perfectly straight, in the assistant D.A.'s spot. God, he wasn't looking forward to this. Gordon swallowed hard and steeled himself for another bout of verbal fencing.

* * *

><p>"Nashton. We need to talk."<p>

The cryptographer in question paused in the act of opening his office door and turned to Gordon with a look of self-justified bewilderment.

"Of course, Commissioner. What about?" he asked, his hand still on the handle.

"Please, come into my office." Gordon even held the door for him. He drew in a deep breath, exhaled, and turned to the cryptographer. "Listen, I'm not really sure how to say this. Thank you for your work, you've done an exemplary job-"

"Oh, but I can't go back to New York just yet," Nashton interrupted. He walked past Gordon and- actually had the nerve to sit in the Commissioner's chair. "My work here... is just begun." He smiled politely and gestured to the chair across the table. Gordon ground his teeth together and remained standing.

"You did an excellent job of decrypting the vehicular computer," he said, keeping his voice level with effort. "_However_-"

"The department no longer has need of me?" Nashton drew himself up, smirking. "Come, come, Commissioner, we both know that is simply not true! If I leave now, who will find the real murderer of Harvey Dent?"

"We'll get Batman eventually," Gordon snapped. "You know that, Nashton. We always do."

Nashton threw back his head and laughed.

"Oh my God," he said, recovering a little. "This is the stuff of Shakespearean comedy and TV primetime specials. Commissioner. Let me put it this way. I know you know I know that you're lying. But you don't know I know you know I know... about what _really_ happened to Harvey Dent."

Commissioner Gordon's heart sank.

"Come again?" he asked.

"You know what's funny," Nashton mused, putting on hand on his chin. "You know what's really funny? When I told you that Batman's M.O. is always... solo... I lied. Yes, I admit it. There was one time when there had to be at least two of them."

"Oh?" Gordon said, keeping a blank face with effort. "And when was that?"

Nashton's smile would have done credit to a shark.

"Fear Night," he said, slowly, deliberately. "When Batman was, ah, 'flying through the Narrows after the runaway el-train?' Someone had to drive the Tumbler. And I wonder, Commissioner... who could that be?"

There was a space of tense silence. A trickle of sweat ran down Gordon's forehead and he brushed it away, quickly. Nashton's smile never wavered.

"Where is Harvey Dent?" he said.

"Harvey Dent is dead," Gordon said.

BOOM! The desk light over Gordon's left shoulder exploded in a cloud of sparks, and suddenly there was a Magnum in Nashton's left hand.

"Again, lies!" Edward Nashton growled. "I hate them, I hate them, I _hate _lies! Listen, Commissioner. Don't insult my intelligence with such shoddy fabrications. We both know Harvey Dent is alive. Now. Where is he?"

Gordon swallowed hard and stared over Nashton's shoulder at the empty night outside the window. Please, please...

"WHERE IS HE!" The fury in Nashton's voice was palpable. Recovering his control, he leaned back in his chair and ran a hand through his dark hair. His eyes were burning points in shadow, his face thin and haggard, and Gordon suddenly realized how... unstable... the cryptographer looked.

"Nashton..." he began.

"Shut up," Nashton ordered curtly. "Just shut up. Now. Listen. This is your last chance to tell the TRUTH! Where... is... Harvey... Dent?" The last _t _was sharp as a pinpoint. Gordon drew in a deep breath, closed his eyes, and sighed.

"You know I can't tell you that," he said.

Nashton's face twisted into an expression of contempt, passion, and cold fury.

"Well, then, _Commissioner," _he said, his voice low and deliberate. "If you can't tell me where he is... I'll go to someone who can." He reached down, pulled open a drawer in the Commissioner's desk, and removed a silver aerosol can. Gordon gasped.

"You bastard! You've been-"

Somewhere far away, a blurry light was moving dimly. Gordon groaned and tried to close his eyes. His head throbbed, his throat was raw and scratchy, and even looking at the light.

"'In my office,' he says," a raspy voice said. "I dunno what it means. Maybe it was th' Batman. Snuck in and got 'im in his own office."

Gordon gasped in air and sat up. No!

"Where's Nashton?" he croaked. "Where is he?"

"Hey, take it easy, Commish." Harvey Bullock, looking angry, concerned, and hilariously disheveled, handed him a water bottle. "Wanna tell us what happened?"

"Where's NASHTON? Where is he?".?docid=25885399

"He left about fifteen minutes ago in a regular squad car. Said he had some special mission from you- what's wrong? Commish?"

"I want an APB on Edward Nashton, now," he said. "Bullock, you said you saw him going. Which way?"

Bullock scratched his head and pulled at his sprung collar.

"East, north-east. To the Narrows, right?"

And then it hit him, with a slow, horrible, crushing realization. Slowly, numbly, Gordon lowered the water bottle back to the desk.

"No," he said. "To Arkham..."

* * *

><p>"I've got to say, I didn't see that coming," Selina said, dropping into the soft leather couch a few feet from Bruce. She'd changed out of the tight lounge dress, opting for a grey turtleneck and soft black slacks, dancer's after-hours wear. "Bruce Wayne, Hefner's heir, gives a woman the <em>guest bedroom? <em>I'm a little offended, actually."

Bruce chuckled and moved a little closer.

"Well, maybe I want to take things a little slower," he said, placing an arm around her shoulders.

"Slower? Whatever happened to 'drive fast, live hard, die young?'" quipped Selina.

"You're never going to let me live that down, are you?" he teased.

Selina shook her head, eyes laughing.

"Mm-mm."

Just then, the butler walked in, and Selina knew something was wrong. He had that look.

"Pardon me, sir, but something's come up at the office."

Bruce groaned.

"How urgent?"

"It's..." the butler raised his eyebrows in that inimitable British je-ne-sais-quoi look "...urgent, sir."

"Oh, Bruce, not now," Selina interrupted. "Please, sir. I'm sure it can wait."

The butler looked pained, and his eyes went back to Bruce. Selina looked at him, too; seriously, Bruce? You're dumping me for a _business deal? _He looked at her, hesitated-

Selina leaned forward and traced her forefinger down his shoulder.

"Don't go," she breathed. "Stay here. Stay with me."

"Alfred," he said, his eyes not leaving hers, "tell Lucius to handle it."

Alfred straightened up.

"Right away, sir," he said curtly, and left the room.

Selina leaned forward and kissed Bruce, slowly. Outside, there was a distant flash and dull boom, and the rain began in earnest.

* * *

><p>The police sirens cut through the night, loud and red and far too common to disturb any sleeping citizens. Already the night was thick with cold rain, the streets awash in clear water, and the squad cars sent up watery plumes behind them. Gordon pulled his wet trench coat a little closer and sneezed twice. He'd already wasted ten minutes on the roof, "getting a little air" and waiting for someone who never came. But it wasn't Batman's fault. How could he know about Nashton? He'd never even met the man.<p>

"I should have told him," Gordon muttered.

"Told who?" Bullock asked. He'd ditched the tuxedo overcoat, but still looked ridiculous in the white ribbed shirt and dangling bowtie. He pulled his own coat a little closer and cranked up the car's heat. "Told 'im what?"

Gordon sighed.

"I don't... never mind." He reached for the radio. "Wilkins. O'Leary. Location please."

"Keep your pants on, Gordon," came Wilkins' grumpy voice. "We're at the corner of Fifth and Hickory. Going as fast as we can. Wanna tell us why?"

Gordon stopped and looked at Bullock. The big detective raised his eyebrows. Yeah, Commish, I'd like to hear it too.

"Nashton assaulted me in my office and is a suspect in an ongoing homicide investigation," Gordon said. "It's of utmost importance we stop him tonight."

"Homicide?" Bullock looked up from the wheel. "Since when? Look, Commish, something ain't right here. He's going ta Arkham? What's at Arkham? And who'd he try ta kill, anyway? You ain't levelin' with me, Commish. You ain't levelin' with me."

"Bullock," Gordon said, trying to keep his voice from shaking, "keep driving."


	18. Masks

"Well, I'm headed home, Marla. See you Monday," called Dr. Quinzelle, over her shoulder. It had been a long, tiring day, complete with a prolonged psychotic episode from one of her low-level patients, and all Harley wanted now was a Healthy Portions platter, "All My Children" rerun, and hot, foamy bubble bath.

FLASH! The entire lobby of Arkham Asylum lit up in blinding fluorescence, and the following BOOOOOM was strong enough to shake the windows. Harley winced. And an umbrella. She could really use an umbrella about now. Marla, the evening shift nurse, waddled up, rubbing cherry lotion into her palms.

"Sure glad I'm not headed out in that," Marla commented. "You sure you're gonna be all right?"

Harley smiled ruefully.

"Hey, water never hurt any-" she stopped, frowned. A blue-and-red light flashed in one window and flew across the dim lobby walls. Police cruiser. "Uh-oh. Looks like we have a new patient. Get the general admit form ready, I'll sign quick and-"

The door burst open, and a sopping wet figure in suit and tie stumbled in, clutching a dripping briefcase. Alone. Harley frowned and walked around the desk.

"Excuse me, sir, how can I help-"

CLICK. Suddenly, his arm was around her neck, and there was something hard and cold under her chin. Behind her, Harley heard Marla gasp and drop the lotion bottle. Harley's heart rate picked up, her breathing went fast and shallow, her vision sharpened as adrenaline flooded her brain. Distantly, she could hear something ringing. An alarm, maybe... he squeezed a little tighter, and she snapped back to the present.

"Don't move, please," he said, easily. "Now, miss-"

"Doctor," she managed. "Harleen. Quinzelle."

His eyes widened a little. Green eyes. Green, like grass, or mold. Funny what you noticed at times like these-

"-to visit a patient," he said, even smiling a little. "Funny thing, you know. You're his doctor. Now, Dr. Quinzelle, Dr. Harleen, Dr. Harley Quinn... take me to the Joker."

* * *

><p>Boring. Arkham Asylum was boring. B-O-R-I-N-G. The food was boring. The straitjacket was boring. The padded walls (pink, aggression-repressing powder pink, like the fine soft tissues inside a woman's nose) were boring. The only entertainment was from Dr. Crane and Dr. Quinzelle, and they were both... busy. Joker growled and licked his lips. Not fair. It was not fair. Just because one of Harley's patients had had a psychotic break, just because Johnny boy had had another "incident" with Mr. Bolton, that meant that he, Joker, had to sit and rot in boredom?<p>

"It's not fair," he muttered. "All they care about is themselves. No- ah- sense of humor."

Then his door opened, quickly, and Dr. Quinzelle came in. No, not quite; she came in lopsided, with a hand around her throat, flopping awkwardly like an overgrown fish. Joker sniggered. And her captor was...

"Eddie. _Eddie_, Eddie boy, _Edward_... hello," he said. "Hello, Nashton. I've been waiting for you."

That confused Nashton- the boy, that was all he was, just a boy, a boy playing in a world of men, not a good place for a boy to be- although he tried to hide it. Almost kept his face straight, almost didn't give the tell, actually moved the gun a little closer to Harley's chin. Ooh. A tough guy. Self-_control._ This was going to be _fun._

"Hey, hey, hey hey hey now, Nashton," Joker said, leaning forward in his straitjacket, "just between you and me... why don't you let Harley go? I, uh, really don't like it when people touch my stuff without asking."

The boy smirked.

"As you answer my question," he said. "Or questions, as they may be."

Ooh. _Definitely _going to be fun. Joker couldn't hide a grin, and he licked his scars in anticipation. Eddie, Eddie, Eddie... let's play a game.

"Like, uh... where's Harvey _Dent_?" Joker said.

Nashton's eyes brightened, but with a hard sort of brightness.

"He's alive," he breathed.

"More or less," Joker said. "Oh, yeah, doc, I forgot to tell you. I guess it just... slipped my mind! But then again... you never really asked, did you?" He looked back at Nashton. "Would you like to meet him?"

* * *

><p>"These are Crane's tunnels," Dr. Quinzelle said, breathless. Joker gave her what he hoped was a cheerful smile and patted her on the back.<p>

"That's right," he said. "Or, uh, Scarecrow's. I think he prefers that name, you know. By the way, did I ever tell you... you look absolutely ravishing in that?"

Her jaw tightened, and she stared straight ahead. Silly girl. Trying not to make eye contact with him... Joker grabbed chin and pulled it close to him, aware he was leaving thumbprint bruises along her jawline.

"You," he growled, "Look. Beautiful. You... really make that look _work. _Don't look away from me! Now. Doc. We're about to meet one of my, ah, nearest and d_earest _friends. One of Gotham's real high rollers! And I, I just want you to look your best. I even gave you my best jacket. And you didn't even _thank_ me."

Dr. Quinzelle went white, her eyes fixed on his. It was tender, really. But then...

"No, no, darling." Joker would have kept going, but the boy was sliding along the wall with equal parts eagerness and, well… Joker's hand shot out and grabbed Nashton's collar. Silly little riddler. "Are you trying to skip _out?" _Nashton's breathing hitched, and he went still. "_No? _Oh, good. Cause if you skip out, you wouldn't get to see..." Joker couldn't suppress a snigger. "...the _truth." _They'd reached the door; Joker let go of Harley and banged on the metal surface. "Hey, Harvey! Harv! _Wakeup! _There's someone here to _see you!"_

Keyring jangling loudly, Joker reached over and jammed a curved key into the lock. The door swung open.

It was white, white, all blindingly pure, snow on a mountain, paper under light- for half of the cell. The other half, and it was so perfectly half, painstakingly divided, was scored with hundreds- thousands- of tiny scratch lines. Ink. Pen? Harvey Den-tah was allowed a pen? And blood, of course... of course. Stained and spotted and even ripped at the edges of the padded tiles. But the other side of the cell- white! white! It dazzled the eyes.

In the center of the room, his face turned to the right, to the white, Harvey Dent sat on his bed. The silver coin rose into the air, tumbled, and fell again to his waiting hand.

"Dent," breathed Nashton, eyes widening, eyes shining. "I heard you were dead."

Harvey Dent hesitated with the coin in his hand, looked towards them, and turned. Joker felt the scar tissue tug at his lips as he burst into a wide smile. Behind him, Harley gasped.

**"You heard right,"** said Dent, and it was nothing like his polished campaign voice. A low, guttural growl. Like a dog. The Joker couldn't have been happier. **"Hello, _clown. _Who's the girl?"**

"Never mind about her," Joker interposed. "She's a little, uh, mixed up right now. She's, uh, she's in love with me and doesn't know it yet. But! This, this," he grabbed Eddie's shoulder and pushed him forward, "you want to meet this boy right here. Eddie _Nashton_. He is... your press agent!" Harvey looked unimpressed, so the Joker bent down a little closer and looked him in the eye. Most people were reasonable, once you got close enough. "Listen. Harv. We've already had our little _talk. _So trust me when I say... I'm not here to make trouble. I'm doing you a _favor, _Har_vey._"

"The people of Gotham City must know the truth," Nashton broke in, eagerly. "The truth about happened to you. Truth. Justice, Dent. Don't you want that?"

Harvey turned suddenly, his exposed eyeball rolling grotesquely.

**"Truth? Justice? You want to know the truth about _justice?" _**He nodded at the Joker, his scorched face curling into a nightmarish sneer. **"Try hanging around _him _for a we'll see how much _tru__th _you really know.****" **He snorted with laughter or anger, or maybe both, and shook his head. **"****And justice? Here's the only justice. In a world of chaos... fate. _C__hance. _You talk about justice and crime, truth and lies, good and evil... don't you see? They're both two sides of the same coin."**

He leaned back and flipped the coin. The Joker watched, fascinated. Even though he looked forward to the boy, he still... _enjoyed _Dent. Harvey Dent, Harvey... his first conquest. He'd taken Dent's little justice routine and broken it for shits and giggles, and oh, what a good job he'd done. The cracks could only get wider from here. As the coin spiraled slowly upward, Joker was acutely aware of Nashton drawing himself upright, eyes brightening, and... Dr. Quinzelle. She hadn't run. She leaned in closer, her body pressed close against his, her eyes fixed on the coin, and the Joker drew in a long breath. First the boy, then Dr. Quinzelle. No, not Dr. _Quinzelle. Harley._ Harley Quinn... but first, the boy.

The coin fell into Dent's waiting hand and flipped over. Scarred side up. Harvey looked up, the exposed jaw muscles in his face clenching visibly.

**"What do you want me to do?"**

* * *

><p>Arkham was scarcely cheerful in the daytime; by night, it became a place of nightmares. The high iron gates, with its twisting spires and jagged piketops, took on a hellish aspect; the mouldering building, covered with ancient gargoyles and dirty gutterspikes, glowed with an otherworldly light. It was a crumbling, evil-minded, malevolent old mansion, an old hospital caught in slow decay or transformation. It was the haunted house from every child's nightmare, lit by flickering fluorescence and the occasional flash of lightning.<p>

As they screeched to a halt in front of the heavy doors, Gordon already knew they were too late. The police car stood haphazardly on the lawn, the door still open, the keys still dangling from the ignition. Gordon rammed his own cruiser into park and bounded towards the asylum door.

"We're here, what now?" Bullock yelled, trailing after him and trying to shield his face from the rain. "Commish? COMMISSIONER!"

Gordon burst into the lobby. Empty. A nurse in lavender scrubs lay near the desk, blood pooling under her head. Gordon knelt to check her pulse, and Bullock waddled up behind him.

"She's alive," Gordon reported.

"Damn." Bullock tipped his fedora back and winked away rainwater. "Nashton do this?"

"Yes. I think- I think he's after the Joker. Call an ambulance, call for backup." Gordon rose to his feet, his dread turning to anger. "Call everybody! Dammit! Isn't there any security in this place?"

* * *

><p>Things were not going well. Nashton stumbled along in front of the Joker, trying to keep his feet in the uneven, slightly sodden tunnel. Joker was laughing now, low and under his breath, but it was... it was damn unnerving. Not really a laugh. It was... Nashton ground his teeth together. He was <em>not <em>unnerved. Even if the situation was... escalating...

Damn it. Damn it, damn it. He should have gone with Crane. He hadn't expected the mad doctor to be in solitary. Joker was too, too unpredictable. He'd insinuated himself into a leadership role with a mixture of deranged charisma and subtle threats. 'Leave the doctor in Harvey's cell; maybe she can do a little interior decorating.' 'No, Eddie, let's not let Harv show his face just yet... let's add a wild card to the deck.' And the coin _would _favor Joker's plans. Nashton had to face the facts, as any rational being might. He was losing control of the situation. Sociologically speaking, there was little-

Joker slapped him on the back in dangerous joviality, and Nashton almost lost his footing. He wanted to snap at Joker, but... oh. Wonderful. The deranged killer had found a knife.

"Ohhh... ohhh... look at it," Joker crooned, turning the knife back and forth in the dim light. "Beautiful, isn't it? There's nothing so, so _perfect, _in all the world than a good, dull knife. Not sharp. Make it too sharp... they won't even _feel _it. But this... this _is... _perfect."

Okay. Time to go. Avoid making eye contact, maintain a pleasant demeanor, do not exhibit fear or aggression.

"Joker, listen-" And Nashton immediately found a strong, surprisingly clean hand clamped over his mouth. Another hand was at the back of his skull, and he could feel the knife's edge knocking, barely touching, below his left ear. Nashton went still and breathed low and steady. No fear.

", I know you're getting antsy, Eddie- you don't mind if I call you that, do you? _No?_ I think you're lying. I think, I think you're lying about that. But hey, that's all right. I'm going to set everything straight. Just a few, a few minutes. See that door over there?" Unwillingly, Nashton's head turned and he saw a fairly new silver door. Elevator. And Joker had the gall to make him nod his head! "_That _door... goes up. All the way up. You wanna go up, Eddie? Or... you can stay down here..." Ah, now the knife was moving. Threats. That was all, just threats. The blade rested faintly on his throat, almost ticklish, and Nashton forced himself to keep breathing. "...all by yourself."

Nashton didn't dare try to move. Joker had him over a barrel, metaphorically speaking. Idiot. He should have seen this coming. He'd have to play along.

"Up," he said, choked. "I'll go up."

Joker sucked in his cheeks, grinned, and stepped off Nashton, the knife lowering.

"Smart boy."

They rode up to the roof in silence. Or what would have been silence, except the Joker kept giggling, turning his knife over and over in his hands, and even _singing. _It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood, a beautiful day... Nashton scowled and stared resolutely at the wall. It was all right. The worse Joker could do was try to throw him off the roof- or cut his throat, but Nashton tried not to think about that- and he'd already ensured Gordon and the loyal Bullock dog would be present. The Joker had no plans, no outside contact. There was no escape from the roof. Any rational being-

The elevator jolted to a stop, and Joker latched onto Nashton's arm. He squirmed, but Joker just laughed and jerked him forward.

"This is, uh, our _floor!"_

Nashton was dragged out into the rain- and it was raining now- and felt a tiny surge of hope to see five squad cars below. Then there was a searchlight in his face, and Joker's arm was back around his neck, and he could barely see. Someone- probably Wilkes or Johannson- was yelling for Joker to take it easy and release the hostage. Hostage? Nashton squinted against the light, scowling, and felt the knife return to the soft skin above his collarbone. Joker would sever his subdavian artery and leave him to bleed out. Nashton grunted and swung his elbow into Joker's crotch. The clown just laughed.

"Finally!" he chortled, his lips less than an inch from Nashton's ear. "Okay, okay, so you get the point."

"I'm your getaway plan," Nashton said bitterly. "How clever."

"No, you're better than that," said Joker. He cracked his neck and got closer, arms tightening around Nashton's neck. Nashton was going to be crushed to death. "You're gonna bring the Bat here."

Nashton couldn't resist a harsh chuckle.

"So you think," he said. "I- ah!- I distracted him. Simple, really."

"Ooh. _Ooh. _So, let me get this _straight..." _Joker licked his lips, unmindful of the pouring rain. "You think you know who he _is?"_

"I know," Nashton replied. Rain was running down his glasses, making it difficult to see, but he thought he discerned the outline of a helicopter. Good.

"No, you only _think _you know. _I _know. He's... he's Batman."

"What?"

"He's Batman. And that's why you hate him, isn't it?"

_"What?" _That took Nashton completely by surprise. "I don't hate him. I'm trying to exonerate him. For God's sake! Just let me go!"

"Uh-_uh. _You hate him. Because... he wears a mask. Because he _lies._ Don't, don't try to hide it- I can see it... on you... But me. I don't wear a mask. I don't hide... who I am."

Nashton struggled, futilely.

"Big talk from a man wearing makeup!" he shouted.

"Makeup? _Makeup? _No, no, Eddie... this is my face. This is... who I am. Don't LIE to yourself! You don't think this me? And Harvey! The outside matches the inside, that's my motto. But Batman. _He _wears a mask. He wears it in the daytime, when he walks around pretending to be... as good and sane and _normal _as everyone else in this stinking city." Joker laughed and pushed Nashton forward.

Below, the assembled police shouted and cocked guns. Nashton swallowed hard and focused on them. Somebody, just take the shot already.

"And you found his mask, didn't you?" Joker said. "And I know... I know guys like you. You have to tell the truth. Whatever you think it is. You think you know Batman? You don't know _ANYTHING! _You STUPID, sniveling IDIOT!"

That was too much.

"I'm not an idiot!" Nashton snapped.

"SHUT UP! You, you were going to get on the camera and tell everyone what you found. A lie! You were going to tell the city a lie! ADMIT IT!"

They were dangerously close to the edge now, despite Nashton's resistance and the muted bullhorn of the police below. Nashton closed his eyes. Just play along, just play...

"NO!" he yelled, desperately. "I know who he is! GORDON! I KNOW WHO BATMAN IS! I KNOW WHO HE IS!"

The knife dug into his shoulder, but Nashton barely felt it. He kept yelling, screaming, shouting it from the top of the asylum, until the Joker's hand was over his mouth and the knife point shaking inside his cheek.

"Shut up. SHUT UP!" growled the Joker. "You just don't get it, do you? You don't get it." The rain was suddenly drowned by the roar of rotors as a Gotham PD helicopter swung in to Nashton's right. "But you will."

It happened so quickly. The knife was suddenly gone, and the Joker pinioning grip gone, and Joker himself half a step behind Nashton. The cryptographer realized what was happening a split second too late and tried to turn, to stop, as the Joker planted two hands on his back and gave him a firm push. Six inches forward, three seconds of desperate, terrible tottering, and a sharp, despairing shriek as he disappeared over the edge.

Edward Nashton fell.

* * *

><p>Phew! It's been a ridiculously long time since I was on here... I expect some manner of groveling is expected... (grovel grovel grovel) Life's been busy, and I'm actually on my way to being published (in an obscure academic journal, but still), so most of my happy writing times have been devoted to John Berryman and the Confessional school of poetry...<p>

...rather than the silly adventures of Joker and Eddie. Anyway! Enjoy the chapter, I hope to update over the weekend, yada yada yada. Reviews still greatly appreciated!


	19. Rain on the Rooftop

Gordon edged down the silent corridor, handgun at the ready. A few feet away, the third of the four security guards lay in a pool of his own blood, his eyes wide and glassy. Gordon tried not to look. For all he knew, Joker had rigged the body... or was lying in ambush around the nearest corner.

A few feet behind the commissioner, Bullock moved with surprising stealth. He had his firearm out as well, and Gordon could tell by the thunderclouds gathering on Bullock's brow that the Joker was not getting off easy. Not this time.

"-ssschkxxftttwenty-four and five, he's on the roof with a hostage! Repeat, Joker's on the roof with a hostage!" Gordon's hip radio crackled to life, making both officers jump. "Come in, Commissioner! Joker's got a- oh, hell. I think it's Nashton."

Gordon seized the transmitter. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bullock step away from the wall, rubbing his neck and unsuccessfully averting his eyes from the bloody corpse.

"Maintain your position, officer. I want a sniper- I want snipers on the Joker five minutes ago. See if you can open negotiations-"

BOO-OOOOM. The sound reverberated down the white hallway, terrible and slow and louder than Gordon remembered. The sound was deafening... unexpected... Gordon hit the floor on instinct. Bullock did the same, shielding the Commissioner with his body and swearing profusely. Gordon was at a loss. Who the hell...

Gordon looked up, and his heart nearly stopped. At the far end of the hallway, there were two men. One was a security guard, easily identifiable by the khaki uniform and black belt. He was doubled over, choking, wheezing, his ruptured throat spilling copious amounts of blood. The other stood perhaps two feet away and held a standard security issue handgun still pointed in the dying man's area. A patient.

"Holy mother of God..." Bullock paused in his stream of profanity. "What _is _that thing?"

Down the hallway, Harvey Dent lowered the gun and kicked the guard's body on its side. He looked up.

**"Hello, Jim."**

Gordon had already seen the damage, but couldn't restrain a cringe. The left half of Dent's face was gone; it had become a crude human anatomy model spiderwebbed with veins and deteriorating scar tissue. It looked like a wound that had started healing and then been torn open again... and again...

**"What's the matter?" **Dent said, his voice a raw, guttural growl. **"Don't recognize your old friend?"**

"Harvey... wait."

Across from Gordon, Bullock paused in the act of cocking his gun.

_"Harvey?"_ he said, incredulous. "Harvey _Dent? _Commissioner..."

"I'll explain this later, Bullock," Gordon said. Dent still had the gun, and he was starting to pace, agitated. He pulled out the coin. Flipped it. Caught it. "Don't move," Gordon warned him. "You take another step, and I'll shoot you, Harvey. I don't want to, but I will."

"COMMISSIONERshssxxx!" exploded the radio. "Where the sshshxxkck are you? Joker's getting shksfasfxxxf need backfsfsfsfxxx now! Commissioner? COMMISSIONER! Oh, no... holy hell, he's got a-"

The line went dead. There was a brief space of silence before Harvey Dent began to laugh. It was a low, rough, mirthless sound Gordon had never expected to hear coming from his old friend, and it made Gordon's skin crawl.

**"Tough luck, Jim," **growled Dent. **"But it's all right. There's two of you. Odds are, one of you will make it out alive. Let's see... we'll start with the big pig, shall we?" **

"Harvey, no!" Gordon yelled.

It was too late. Harvey Dent flipped the coin, caught it... and flipped it over on the back of his hand. He stared at it for a moment, eye rolling grotesquely, and shot Harvey Bullock in the stomach.

Bullock groaned and slid to the floor. The gun slipped from his hand and knocked softly on the floor. For a moment, Gordon was frozen in shock, in horror. He looked up- and saw a smirk twisting Dent's face.

Inside Gordon, something snapped- or broke. He grabbed Bullock's gun, swung it up, and-

"I'M SORRY, HARVEY!" he screamed.

Dent crumpled, his chest turning red. He staggered to the wall, slid down, tried to rise again. Not dead yet. Gordon couldn't bring himself to shoot twice. He turned and rolled Harvey Bullock over.

"Commish..." wheezed the detective. A scarlet thread escaped from his mouth and ran down his stubbly face. "Joker..."

"Hang on, detective," Gordon said. "We're getting you out of here."

"No, th'... Joker," Bullock insisted. "You can't... we... can't."

Gordon took a deep breath and reached into his coat. He drew out the last of the signals, the one he'd been saving: a piece of tiny sonar equipment with a burnished black bat.

"No," he said. "But I know someone who can."

* * *

><p>Somewhere in the house, a phone rang. Selina cracked an eye, slightly irritable. Being a light sleeper was useful when working a case- not so when spending the night at a friend's house. Overhead, a door opened, and she heard a series of faint footfalls. Judging by the cadence... probably the butler. Oh, Master Bruce, a call for you... Selina rolled over and glanced at the red digits on the nightside table. Twenty minutes past two? Who could possibly be calling at two in the morning? A door closed, then opened. Bruce came out of his room, almost running. His footsteps thudded loudly on the ceiling. Selina sat up, blinking sleep away. Now her curiosity was aroused. She got up and walked lightly to the door-<p>

"...shall I tell Miss Kyle?" a British voice asked, a few feet away. Selina froze, breathing slowly and softly. They must be just outside her door. He was going either to the kitchen, the library, or the study...

"Whatever you like, Alfred," Bruce's voice said. "This is important. It's Gordon's signal and..." his voice floated out of range as they passed and continued down the corridor. She strained, but could hardly make out any more words. But still- Gordon? As in Commissioner Gordon What could Bruce possibly want with Gordon?

Her mind abuzz with questions, Selina slipped back into the room and reached under the bed for the small silver briefcase. This was a mystery worth investigating.

* * *

><p>Bruce pulled the gloves on and tested the sharp gauntlet grimly.<p>

"How do you know it's not a trap?" Alfred said, holding out the belt. Overhead, a few of the cave's regular inhabitants fluttered across the ceiling, upset at the lights.

"I trust Gordon," Bruce replied. "Besides, the signal is coming from inside Arkham Asylum. That can't mean anything good."

"It could mean the Gotham Police have rigged a jolly good trap for you," Alfred said. "That crytographer, Nashton- how do you know he's not behind all this?"

Bruce strapped on the belt, grabbed the remote from the console, and turned on the huge screen. It was already tuned to Gotham Live. Onscreen, four police helicopters circled Arkham Asylum, which was practically surrounded by police cars. The searchlights illuminated the Gothic exterior of the asylum, all the beams focused on one man, on the roof. Unmistakeable.

"-just in, Joker is apparently staging a breakout, armed with nothing but a-" The camera shook sideways as the screen lit up in an enormous blaze of orange and red. "Holy BEEEP! What is that thing? Uh... uh... backtoyouSummer, technical difficulti-"

Alfred sighed.

"Point taken, sir."

* * *

><p>Selina crept silently through the library, glancing about her warily. She'd evaded the security cameras so far- why so many, Bruce? You live in a fortress, for God's sake!- and disabled the window alarm in the lobby. If anyone did see her in Wayne Manor, well, the mysterious cat burglar must have got in through the window. She'd have to steal something if that happened... Have to? Selina shook her head, chiding herself. He'd gotten into her head, hadn't he? She couldn't let it make her sloppy. No... freedom before pleasure...<p>

Besides, there wasn't anything here she really wanted. Selina glanced at a nearby portrait and curled a lip. Expensive, but seriously lacking in taste. Who wanted pictures of hunting hounds, anyway?

Ahead, Selina's eye caught quick movement in the shadows. She dropped into the darkness behind the enormous bookshelves and froze. It was the butler. He seemed preoccupied, shaking his head and sighing, and passed her without looking up. Good. The library door swung shut, and Selina detached herself from the shadows. The rain hammered loudly on the high windows, and there was no moonlight to speak of, but she could still make out the _Encyclopedia Brittanica, _CH-CZ, on the shelf. Just as she had seen him do, Selina pulled back gently on it, and watched the bookcases slid open.

The secret study was empty. Selina paused, blinking. She'd expected to find him here- possibly searching for money, or crying into the phone, or maybe even loading a gun, but not... gone. Selina shook her head. Impossible. Where could he be? She pulled out her keychain black light and aimed it around the room. Any place he'd touched, she'd see.

"Not much of a reader, are you, Bruce?" she muttered, scanning the (mostly) clean bookshelves. She stopped at a thick volume of Aristotle, raising an eyebrow. No fingerprints, but the dust atop the book had been disturbed. Selina pulled the book off the shelf, and something black and metallic fell into the carpet. She picked it up. A bug. Expensive. Powerful. Untraceable. "Nashton," she growled. She dropped the bug into her belt pouch- she'd throw it in the toilet later- and continued her search.

The clock on the wall was covered in fingerprints. Selina stopped and moved in for a closer look. Not just the glass front, or the wall... the face of the clock itself bore dozens of tiny whorled prints. And the wall... she squinted, stopped, shook her head. A fingerprint half under the clock itself.

"You're just a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma, aren't you?" she mused. "And what's the key here, hmmmm? Probably a time..." The fingerprints on the clock's face were clustered around the ten. 10:50 failed, as did 10:52, 53, 54. She stopped and tried moving the minute hand backwards. 10:49. 10:48. 10:47.

The clock swung open, revealing a set of stairs leading into darkness. With a quick backwards look, Selina stepped into the darkness. The clock swung noiselessly shut behind her.

"Oh, great," she muttered. She reached up, flicked on her night-vision lenses, and scanned the wall behind her. No visible doorknob. She'd have to find another way out. Resolutely, Selina turned and began to descend the staircase. "Let's just hope you're not a vampire or mad monk," she said under her breath. "Last thing I need in my life is-"

She broke off. It wasn't just a staircase. It was a cave. A huge cave. In one corner, a computer larger than any she'd ever seen hummed quietly. Its console spanned nearly twenty feet; it looked like a prop from a science fiction movie. Another part of the cave had been converted into a vehicular turntable, with three smaller alcoves serving as the "garages." A tunnel led away into more darkness, the ceiling blanketed with... bats? Selina shook her head in disbelief. What the hell?

Then she turned and saw it. A suit, like hers, but resting on a high-tech body-shaped mannequin behind bulletproof glass.

"You're Batman," she whispered, incredulous. "Bruce Wayne... you're..." she reached out and almost, almost touched the glass. Then she laughed. It all made sense. All of it! The secrecy, the unwillingness to trust, the overblown public persona and imperfect private persona... Batman! Why hadn't she seen it before?

Nashton had seen it before. The thought crept in, unwilling, and she stopped smiling. Damn it. He'd seen it too, hadn't he? Supercilious, smug little bastard... he'd known from the very beginning. He'd blackmailed and manipulated her into coming here... he'd known she couldn't pass up a mystery like this. Maybe he'd even foreseen she'd find the secret. And he'd been increasingly obsessed with Batman. It all made sense. He'd sent her here... to get at Bruce. Selina's hands curled into fists.

"Damn you, Nashton," she growled.

As if on cue, something in the ceiling started flashing red and beeping softly. Too late, Selina saw the security cameras- tiny, state-of-the-art globes embedded in the walls and ceiling. Behind her, the door slid open, and the butler stood silhouetted in the light. He had a gun. Two guns.

"All right, miss, put your hands up and don't move!" he yelled, advancing down the stairs.

Selina rolled her eyes.

"Yeah, that's _exactly _what I'm going to do," she said. The whip arced through the air, coiled around the butler's wrists, and jerked his wrists to the left just as he fired. Both shots went wide.

Adrenaline surged through Selina. She cartwheeled forward and sent one gun spinning with a strong kick. He was still trying to aim the other, so she wrenched it away and tossed it towards the turntable.

"See what happens when you try to shoot a lady?" she said, dragging him up by his collar. The look of bafflement and impotent fury on his was face was absolutely hilarious. "Okay, Jeeves, enough with the small talk. Where's your boss?"

"I- don't know what you're talking about," he said. Selina placed her hand in front of his face and extended her claws. "All right, madam, I admit it. I am Batman."

She actually did laugh at that.

"Seriously? All right, let me put it another way. Where's Bruce Wayne?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," he stonewalled.

"Well, if that's the way you want it to be..." Selina shook her head affectionately. Then, quickly, she dealt him a strong sharp blow to the neck. Not enough to kill, just enough to knock him out. The butler groaned, his eyes rolled upwards, and he slumped to the floor. Selina stepped over him and headed towards the turntable- specifically, the large and tantalizingly destructive motorcycle. "I'm going for a little night air," she called, swinging one leg over the saddle. "Don't bother to get up."

* * *

><p>Joker was howling with laughter and covered in blood and water by the time Batman reached the asylum roof. He didn't see Gordon anywhere. Not a good sign.<p>

"Batsy!" Joker laughed, his eyes lighting up like a three-year-old at McDonald's. "I thought you'd never get here! Who- who gave you the tipoff this time? Was it- ACK!"

Batman didn't have time for this. He seized Joker by the throat and held him, dangling, over the drop.

"Go ahead," wheezed the Joker, grinning horribly in Batman's grasp. "Do it. C'mon!"

"Where's Gordon?" Batman growled.

Joker shrugged and threw his hands up comically.

"Don't look at me!"

Batman's grip tightened.

"WHERE IS HE?"

"AhahahahahaHAHAHAHAHA! O-okay! Put me _down-" _Joker struggled for breath. "And I'll tell you. S-scout's honor!"

Begrudgingly, Batman dropped him into a puddle. Joker's wet hair flopped onto his forehead, and he rubbed his throat.

"Ah. Ha. Okay, here's the _thing," _said Joker. "I kinda think, uh, that Gordon's having a little heart-to-heart with Harvey Dent right now. And you know- I r_eally _respect people's... _personal _times. I mean, look at us. You think I'd let someone interrupt one of our little-"

"You're sick, clown."

"Doesn't mean I'm not right," Joker shrugged. "Besides, I knew you'd come back to me-" He stopped, eyes focused beyond Batman, and looked up, grin stretching painfully tight. "Well, well, well. The Bat has a _sidekick. _Why didn't you tell me?"

Batman glared at the Joker. He knew very well the moment he took his eyes off the madman, Joker would attack. But if someone else was coming, he needed to know. Cautiously, keeping his whole body poised towards Joker, he flicked his eyes towards the police cars below. The Batpod. Someone had commandeered the Batpod, and was currently riding it _over _the police-

WHAM! Joker lunged at Batman and caught him in a death grip. Batman stumbled backwards, cursing his inattention. The psychotic clown was whooping his laughter, his sharp chin jammed into Batman's shoulder in some sick parody of an embrace while he enthusiastically kicked Batman's shins and tried to knee him in the groin. Bringing his arms together sharply, Batman twisted in the standard breakhold maneuver of the League of Shadows. Joker merely shifted his grip and tried to bite him through the Kevlar. It was like trying to fight an ape, or a very clingy child. Then he felt the knife. It stabbed deeply into his inner elbow, slicing between the joints of armor.

Enough. With a growl of disgust, Batman twisted his arm and slashed Joker across the chest with the sharp gauntlets. This only made him laugh louder, but Batman had enough leverage to shove Joker away from his chest and send him splashing to the rooftop. Batman wrenched the knife out of his wound and tossed it off the roof. He was beginning to be angry. Cold water was trickling down the suit's joints and, worse, inside his boots, and falling into his eyes. His elbow stung like mad, and he had no doubt Joker would go straight for the injured arm in a minute. At least the clown was unarmed now.

And then Joker picked something up. Batman cursed silently and dove for cover as the madman starting shooting wildly. Joker had no style, no finesse, just a big gun and lots of bullets. Nothing to anticipate, nothing to dodge. Batman would be dead by now if he wasn't wearing Kevlar. As it was, he'd have several very nasty bruises in the morning. Another slug thudded into his chest, just over the bat emblem, and he- stopped. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw motion, and instinctively turned.

It was the cat burglar.

"Get out of here!" Batman rasped, throwing two batarangs towards Joker and lurching in her direction. "It's dangerous!"

As if in response, she uncoiled the whip at her hip and flicked it lazily towards the Joker. The gun splashed to the rooftop.

"Why do you think I dropped by?" she replied. Even in the rain, he could see her smiling- and, despite the rain, the danger, the _Joker- _almost wanted to smile back.

But Joker wasn't smiling. He had picked the gun up and approached slowly, gun held out in front of him, looking slightly unsettled and angry.

"Hey Bats," he said. "_Who is she?"_

Batman stepped in front of the Catwoman, shielding her.

"None of your business," he growled. "She's going home, where it's safe. Now put the gun down before I break your wrist."

"You say the _sweetest_ things," Joker said tauntingly. Then, his voice turning dark again, "Get her out of here, Bats, and quick. Otherwise they're going to use your pretty kitty to fill litter boxes. And that's a _promise_."

"You know, I never did like clowns," Catwoman said coolly, and Batman suddenly felt two hands on his back, shoving him aside. "You got a problem with me, Joker?"

"A problem? A _problem?" _Joker's voice was going high and almost hysterical. He kept aiming, cocking, letting the hammer slide, re-aiming... distracted. Batman rolled to one side and got to his feet quietly. Time to take him down. "I don't have a _problem! _Not a one! I just- I just want to make one thing very clear." He gestured at Batman with one hand, still half-aiming at Catwoman and the Dark Knight. "He's mine. He's _MINE! _And if you think you can come between us-"

Time to end this. Batman tackled him, and they fell to the roof together in a splash of water. The gun clattered loose and spun a few feet away, landing in a puddle. Joker cackled and squirmed and fought like a mad dog, but Batman had the advantage of weight and experience. He landed blow after blow on the maniac's body, knowing he was coming close to breaking a rib but not really caring. This was the man who had killed Rachel. Finally, Joker's laughter died away, and he lay still and quiet. Batman rolled him over unceremoniously and cuffed his hands tightly behind him. No time to find Gordon- the asylum would be full of snipers already. Besides, Two-Face had dangled Gordon's son over a ledge. The only danger was that Gordon might kill Dent, and Batman already knew- he wouldn't. Time to make an exit

"So that's it, huh?" a voice said. The rain was dying down, or maybe it was a lull in the storm. Batman didn't even look behind him.

"I don't know who you are, but I'd stay away from here if I were you," he said. "Joker isn't someone to play around with."

"So stop me," she said, and actually placed a hand on his shoulder. Batman stiffened, paused, and turned.

"I'm trying to give you fair warning," he rasped. "This isn't a game."

"Maybe not to you," she replied, still inexplicably smiling. "If you don't want me in, why not try and catch me... Bruce?"

He froze, completely and utterly taken aback. Bruce. The word rattled around in his brain, echoing louder and louder. She knew who he was. She knew! And she was disappearing rapidly over the side of the building.

Behind him, Joker groaned, giggled, and sat up, his eye already turning a puffy, pouty blue. Bruce ignored him. Putting a hand to his cowl, he pressed the intercom button.

"Alfred. Get Fox on the line. I need a distraction."

No reply. Gritting his teeth, Batman bounded off the roof, shielding his eyes from the blinding police searchlights. Hopefully, taking the Joker into custody would draw the attention of Gotham's finest. He had a cat to catch.

* * *

><p>To everyone who commented... thanks so much, I really appreciate the feedback. NinjaxSketcheartx: No, Nashhton isn't dead. You're right, it wouldn't make sense to develop his character and then kill him off. More on him next chapter, promise!<p>

Winterrain and knightmare: Nashton isn't dead. Sorry! And I haven't been able to work the tied-up-Batman part in... maybe next arc. She got Alfred; is that close enough? :P

Special thanks to footshooter for suggesting the jealous Joker aspect! And I promise, I will get around to a thorough review of "The Clown and the Scarecrow." Really. All you Crane fans out there... go read "The Clown and the Scarecrow!" It's dark, it's funny, it's gritty, it's goofy, and it features Joker and Crane in the Batcave. What's not to love?


	20. E Nigma

CRACK! A jagged bolt of lightning flashed across the sky, and Batman got a split-second image of the Cat leaping from the rooftop, the whip already arcing out in front of her. His mind was racing, thoughts moving at an incredible speed. The whip. A makeshift grapple- possibly in imitation of him? Her armor was obviously based off his own, heavy duty Kevlar by the looks of it, military grade padding. She moved with an easy grace, lithe and poised... catlike. Training. Possibly a copycat.

Batman grimaced as he landed heavily on the roof behind her. Speaking of armor, he needed to have Lucius lighten his. She'd already rolled into an easy landing and leaped up to meet him, the whip arching and curling behind her, around her feet. The challenge was unmistakeable.

"Who are you?" he growled, approaching warily. The rain kept running into his eyes, obscuring his vision. She smiled- she _smiled!- _and tossed her head.

"Seriously, Bruce?" she said. "You want me, knowing your secret, to just... give mine up? Come on. Where's the fun in _that?" _

Bruce growled and sent three Batarangs at her head with a flick of her wrist. She leaped and rolled, bending nearly double, and the razor-edged stars barely skimmed the top of her mask. Then, unexpectedly, something coiled around his ankle and he had to cartwheel forward to avoid being pulled off his feet.

"You're good," she observed, lashing the whip out of reach and circling him. "I mean, obviously, you're good. A _legend, _even. The diversion with the cops- brilliant. You've got friends in high places."

Bruce gritted his teeth. It bad enough that she knew who he was- no, it really was bad enough. It burned at him, hammered inside him. How the hell could she have found out?

"Judging by your costume," he rasped, "so do you."

That got a reaction. For about two seconds, she pulled back with an expression of irritation, but covered it with a smile.

"Not anymore, darling," she said. "Let's just say... the higher you are, the farther you have to fall. And speaking of which, _Bruce, _you're pretty high up."

Batman lunged at her, and they traded blows. He had the advantage of weight and power, as well as several years of training from the League of Shadows, but she- she had a way of insinuating herself into odd positions. She had an interesting fighting style as well, a way of redirecting the redirected force, that kept frustrating his thrusts and chops. On a hunch, Batman lunged at her with a League-style karate chop. She arched backwards and somehow dropped, or fell, or landed behind the blow. Then it was Batman's turn to parry as she leaped at him, her hands outstretched.

RRRRRIP. That was unexpected. Batman turned to face the Cat, noting the long scratch marks in his cape with some concern. He'd have to fix that later.

"You really shouldn't have left the Joker," she said, flourishing her whip theatrically. "He's just going to escape, you know. Eddie wasn't just a hostage."

Wait. Eddie? Edward Nashton. The cryptologist... and it fell into place.

"E. Nigma," Batman growled. "Edward Nashton. He's the one who told you."

"Actually, I found out myself... _Bruce."_ she said. Batman ground his teeth- and suddenly, unexpectedly, the whip coiled around his ankles, and he fell. He tried to regain his balance, but the heavy armor sent him crashing, splashing to the rooftop. In that instant, Catwoman pounced. Her knee went into the small of his back, one hand rammed his face down into the concrete, blinding him, and his right arm twisted back into a painful armhold.

Batman went still.

"See?" she said, her voice amused and almost mocking. "I'm more than capable of winning on my own. And I do love winning..." Her free hand crept down to his waist, and Batman growled as he felt the belt unclip and pull away. "I've got to run, but I'll catch you later." She leaned in, just a little closer, and lowered her voice to a near-whisper, "Shouldn't have underestimated me, Brucie."

Abruptly, her weight left his back, and the feeling rushed back into Batman's arm. Batman sat up, sore, angry, and humiliated, just in time to see the trailing whip vanish over the side of the building. Catwoman was gone.

* * *

><p>"I know you're awake, Bullock."<p>

Commissioner Gordon sat down heavily beside Bullock's bed, waterlogged and weary from a long day. It had not gone well after Batman left. Someone- _someone- _had released all the patients from C-level. Just when the guards were closing in on the Joker, the gates swung open and the orange-clad inmates came pouring out. "Mad Dog" Mallory. Julian Day. Victor Zsasz. Jonathan _Crane. _And Joker had just started laughing the way a dog howls at the smell of blood.

The officers had done their best. They'd beaten back the inmates, withstood a weaponized toxin attack, and almost stopped the Joker. Almost. At the end of the day, Gordon had five dead officers, eleven wounded, and neither Joker nor Batman to show for it.

"Bullock." Gordon drew in a long breath. "We need to talk. You don't understand."

Bullock's eyes cracked open, and he looked at Gordon. Gordon cringed. The betrayal was almost audible.

"Never heard that one b'fore," he said bitterly.

"Bullock-"

"Naw, naw, Commish, let me tell you one now." The big detective shifted in the bed, his eyes focused on the wall. "'We're cracking down on crime here, Detective.' 'I won't tolerate any deals. Zero. None. First sign o' favoritism or backhanded dealings, and you'll be slapped with an investigation so fast yer head'll spin.' Sound familiar?"

Gordon closed his eyes and sighed. He removed his glasses and ran one hand over his eyes.

"You don't understand, Bullock. The Joker was- I couldn't just- I had to do something!"

"Yeah. But not this. I seen th' news- Joker still got away, and you... you made a _deal _with him. Great job, _Commissioner_." Bullock folded his arms and shook his head, his face shifting from pain to cynicism. "Don't say anything. Just... I get it, Commish. I understand. I've played this game b'fore. All right. You did what you had t'do, and I'll back you up on it. Won't say a thing."

"Bullock-" Gordon began, but the detective turned on his with a face equal parts bitterness and stubbornness.

"Nothin' left to say," he said shortly. "I get it, Commish, I really do." There was a short, loud silence. Gordon looked at the ground, breathed in deeply, and nodded shakily. "Peachy," Bullock said. "Now, if you wouldn't mind, I could really do with a strong drink."

* * *

><p>The Batpod rumbled and motored to a stop in the Batcave. Batman swung his leg over the seat, leaving a puddle behind, and pulled off the cowl.<p>

"Alfred," he called. There was no reply. Bruce's heart picked up, his bewildered anger turning to fear. Had she been in the cave? Had she actually-

Alfred lay by a stalagmite, his face lost to shadow. Bruce rushed over and knelt by him. Gently, as quickly as he dared, he turned him over. The butler was still breathing, thank God, but there was a nasty gash on his forehead.

"Alfred," he said. "Oh, no."

Alfred's eyes fluttered open, and he licked his lips groggily.

"Master Bruce," he said. "You're- you're here."

"What happened to you?"

"I- it was some woman dressed like a cat. An ardent fan of yours, no doubt. I found her in the cave and accosted her, but-"

"She knows," Bruce said somberly. "I fought her today, in the rain. She... damn it, she knows. How could she know?" He ran a hand through his hair. "We fought, and I... lost her."

"Oh, dear. Shall I prepare your will and liquidate the stock, sir?"

"Fake my own death and go Batman full-time?" Bruce shook his head. "No. I don't think she means to expose me, at least not yet. She's..." he paused, searching for words. "A wild card. Treats the whole thing like a game. I'd go after her tomorrow night, but... the Joker slipped off after I left. She distracted me. I doubled back, but he was gone." Carefully, he raised Alfred into a sitting position. "But on the bright side..."

"On the _bright_ side, sir?"

"I know who E. Nigma is."

"Wonderful news. The cat burglar who cleaned my clock knows your secret, you managed to lose to her and, I see, somehow misplace your security belt, and the city's most horrific psychopath is loose once more. Do you think you could spare a few painkillers in celebration? I'm afraid the pain is becoming highly... discomforting."

* * *

><p>Pain. There was nothing now but pain.<p>

Edward Nashton lay in his bed, his eyes locked on the ceiling, his legs suspended by canvas slings. The right leg was merely broken: a lateral fracture of the tibia and severe ankle sprain. The left... had taken the the brunt of the blow. Edward Nashton blinked deliberately and recited the doctor's terms. Trimalleolar fracture of the ankle, specifically a compounded Pott's fracture. Deltoid ligament destroyed, lateral and medial malleolus gone, tibia tip sheared and crushed. The tibia and fibula sustained multiple fractures, with the tibia twisted and fragmented.

I'm sorry, Mr. Nashton, but the bone is beyond repair. However, you might consider implants. Will you ever walk again? Now, what a silly _question! _Edward's knuckles turned white on the bed rails, and his eyes glittered in the dark. Perhaps, with extensive therapy, you might someday walk with the aid of a walker or cane. Might. Someday. And everyone will know you're handicapped. Everyone will see... you're weak. Weak! And foolish. Thinking you could handle the Joker, thinking you had it all calculated.

Failed. He'd failed. He'd... not true. He'd followed the truth. He was _not _crazy. What is insanity, but a loss of truth? And Nashton knew the truth, the real truth. Oh yes, he _knew. _

It was morning now, and the nurse was in his room again. Stupid nurse. He'd asked her a question once, but she didn't answer. Couldn't answer.

Oh, dear, Mr. Nashton, you haven't taken any of your morphine! It was sickening. Patronizing. He wouldn't deign to justify that with a response. He had to think... to think... he knew what he knew because what he knew was true. Simple, wasn't it? A tautology cannot logically exist. A paradox cannot logically exist. The only unquestioned assumption is that logic itself is valid. How can one logically prove logic?

Stupid doctor. Now he wanted Nashton to answer his questions. Certainly I will, doctor, if you'll answer some of mine.

Batman. He stopped the Joker before. Meaning: he out-thought him. He anticipated chaos. Logic prevails. Unless the chaos is the logic is the chaos... But Dent was out now. They couldn't hide the truth. Someone would guess. Someone would _see. _They had to see!

Night again. They had him on an IV, but he knew his rights. No morphine. Pain is nothing to the thinking mind. Commissioner Gordon's face floated by, but Nashton refused to answer questions. Simple questions are a waste of time. Answer a riddle, I'll give you the truth. No one had taken him up on it yet.

The television was on. Three days since his arrival at the hospital. Batman still at large. _Joker _still at large. Nashton snorted in contempt. Blind, brainless fools.

"...and an unnamed prisoner is also missing from Arkham Asylum, seemingly having escaped in the car of one Dr. Harleen Quinzelle and spotted several times in the vicinity of the Narrows. Citizens are advised against one John Doe, approximately thirty years old, hair blonde, eyes brown, six feet two inches, with severe facial scarring on the left side of the face. Doe is considered armed, dangerous, and unbalanced, and should not be approached. Meanwhile, Mayor Anthony Garcia and industrial billionaire Bruce Wayne have just created a new scholarship for Gotham U, the Harvey Dent Pre-Law and Legal Studies Scholarship. Let's go live to their first recipient..."

It was too much. Too much! Bruce WAYNE. The coverup was complete. Dent and Gordon and Wayne and Bullock! And no one would ever know. It was complete. It was perfect. It was... it was damn funny. Nashton stared at the ceiling and slowly, quietly, began to laugh. His laughter grew, loud, despairing, until the nurses came running in with looks of pity and horror and a sedative for him.

The needle went into the first nurse's jugular. The second nurse had time to scream before Nashton smashed her head into the bedside table, still laughing. An alarm went off somewhere. Nashton kept laughing, and killed the guard. Now he had a gun. Escape was a question of strategic force, a problem, a puzzle. A riddle.


	21. Crazy Thief

The room was dark. Once upon a time, it had been a manager's office; three outdated Hot Grrrrls calendars hung on one wall, a standard-issue first-aid kit just behind them, and the bars of light from the door trammel fell across an enormous Employee Safety Guidelines chart on the back wall. Someone had come in with a red marker and defaced the Safety Guidelines- HOW TO PREVENT EQUIPMENT ACCIDENTS became HOW TO **_CAUSE_ **EQUIPMENT ACCIDENTS. BASIC INJURY ASSESSMENT was now _**STUPID! **_and the man in the CPR diagram was sporting a wide red smile and holding a knife.

Joker growled and leaned back, the rolling chair squealing softly. He hated that sound. He _hated _it! He hated waiting like this, cooped up, in the dark, the silence... Clowns shouldn't be forced to be still. They need to be laughing, bouncing, _stabbing _something.

But there wasn't much choice. He looked down at the diagrams on the desk, growled in frustration, and ripped them away. The brief relief of the sound of tearing paper was gone all too quickly.

"Batman," Joker said, to the darkness. "Why isn't he here? Why isn't he... He should be looking for me by now! He should be _missing _me. WHY ISN'T HE HERE YET?" A peach-colored coffee cup full of nails flew across the room and broke against the wall, followed by a picture frame, a pair of pliers, a stack of files, and the manager's keys. Joker's breath turned into ragged laughs. He turned and grabbed at the desk, gathering an armful of blueprint paper, diagrams essential to his plans, and-

The door opened, and Edward Nashton walked in, stiffly. He had both legs in casts, his face was startlingly white, and his hospital gown was flecked- no, _spattered- _with red. He had a gun, too, a big gun. Joker stopped, blinked twice, and calmly released the papers.

"Hello," he said, straightening up and rubbing his hands on his purple coat. "Eddie, isn't it? How'd you find me? Or, I guess I should ask... who _was _it... that told you?"

"Nobody," Nashton said, unsteadily. He wasn't looking good; his eyes looked glassy, and there was sweat on his pale cheeks. He wavered a little, lifted the gun in Joker's direction and let it hang again. "You... it was easy. The factory..."

He was going to pass out, Joker noted with faint disappointment. But damn, the boy was fighting to stay up. He was just so... _interesting, _like watching a kitten in a box with electrodes attached to its head that Joker could push at will.

"What'd you do, kill a cop?" Joker asked, nodding at the gun. Nashton's eyes went down to the gun, and came back up to meet Joker's. Empty. "The, uh, the model. Glock 9339, Gotham special." Joker pushed the chair forward and let the boy fall into it. "I like it. But, uh, knives are better."

Nashton looked up, his eyes going wide and spacy, and flopped face-first onto the desk. Joker sighed, shook his head, and pulled a large jackknife out of his left pocket. The cryptographer had gotten in so e_asily. _Too easily.

Joker put his hands to his fingers and whistled for the guards.

* * *

><p>The first thing Nashton was aware of was the crippling, stabbing pain in his right leg. The second was the presence of a human arm folded around his shoulders and a warm, unfamiliar body pressed next to his. His eyes flew open, and Nashton screamed. He shot backwards and fell off the side of the bed. He felt the impact of hitting the floor- oh, <em>God, <em>he felt it- but the next few moments were a blur, as he was temporarily blind and deaf with pain.

And someone was shaking him. The pain receded just enough for Nashton to open his eyes- and he nearly screamed again. Unless he was hallucinating- and he dearly hoped he was- he'd just been sharing a bed with the Joker. Currently, Gotham's most infamous murderer was kneeling over him, his face a terrifying mask of paint and teeth, and looking at him with mock concern.

"...okay, Eddie? I mean, I really didn't mean to s_tartle _you. Were you, uh, having dreams?"

"You," Nashton said through clenched teeth. "You were in bed with me."

The darkness around Joker's eyes stretched and widened as he raised his eyebrows.

"In bed...? Oh, ahahaha, please, Eddie. It's not, uh, like that. I was just trying to make ya feel _better." _He motioned to someone, someone Nashton couldn't see and didn't really want to, and looked back at Nashton with a wolvish, infected smile. "I hate to tell ya, Eddie boy, but... _you're not really my type."  
><em>

Nashton shook his head and immediately wished he hadn't. Everything was blurred, and the pain, the pain was unbearable. Then Joker was handing him something- water, and a small orange canister. Pills. He almost laughed. Yes, he would _certainly _take the pills handed to him by the world's most evil mass-murderer, he wouldn't question it at _all, _he'd love to die of slow poison-

"No," he said, shoving them back. "No pills." Joker said something, tried to threaten him, but he shook his head stubbornly. No pills. Besides, he could handle the pain on his own. With great effort, Nashton sat up and looked around.

The whole warehouse was full of clothing. Velvet, suede, faux leather, silk- they hung from silver racks, all coats. Hundreds of coat. Black, blue, brown, green, grey, purple... The Joker's face filled his vision, scowling in mild irritation, and he felt a knife point against his throat.

"I knew you'd be here," Nashton said, raggedly. "Your... costumer. Hideout. April 6, 2004, Leoncavallo Wardrober's defaults due... largely in part to mob pressure. Why didn't the mob move in? Answer: They did. Alfonso Maggiore, age 43, becomes warehouse manager and oversees shipment of narcotics. September 15, 2007. Maggiore found with throat cut in back alley. No one reclaimed his position... because you were here. Because you couldn't resist."

Joker raised his eyebrows again.

"That's good, Eddie," he said. "So why couldn't I resist?"

Nashton half-chuckled.

"Leoncavallo Wardrober's. The suit wasn't cheap. _Pagliacci."_

"Ooh." Joker retreated, nodding his head and sucking his lips as if in thought. "You _know... _I, I _think _that's right. You, you're a smart boy. So why'd you come back? Do you, uh, still know who _Bat_man is?"

Nashton smiled and pulled himself up a little, tucking his arm under him to support his weight. His thoughts were returning now, moving faster and sharper than before. Isn't it obvious, clown?

"Batman is Batman," he said. "Why did I come back? Because... I have a plan. A plan for Gotham. Not... not for you. Too unpredictable. But I can give you the Batman."

Joker blinked rapidly, his tongue flicking over the scars. Even through the haze of pain, Nashton could already see it. He had him now.

"What do you need?" Joker asked.

"I need... a cameraman."

* * *

><p>Alfred came down the stairs of the cave, tray in tow, and stopped.<p>

"Master Bruce!" he said, rebukingly. "You told me you would try to get some sleep!"

"Can't," Bruce said shortly. He didn't even look up from the console. "I've got work to do."

"You promised me," Alfred said, "after the Joker, you promised me you'd look after yourself more. You won't catch him by running yourself ragged, sir, and the only thing you'll accomplish by depriving yourself of sleep down here... is proving the press right when they say you belong in Arkham." He lowered the tray and set a newspaper, a plate of toast, and a green nutrient smoothie next to Bruce. "You're becoming obsessed with the Joker, proving him right."

"Not the Joker," Bruce said, still not looking up. "Catwoman. She knows, Alfred, she _knows._"

Alfred sighed.

"Very well, let me amend my statement. You're becoming obsessed with _Catwoman, _and it's affecting your work. Not to be rude, sir, but shouldn't you focus on the real danger at hand?"

"I underestimated her once," Bruce said grimly. He sighed and finally turned to face Alfred, looking incredibly disheveled and stubbly after two days of not shaving. "Now she knows my name. I don't know who she is, or what she wants. For all I know, she's put my identity up for underworld auction. Do realize what that would mean? Not just- for me, but for you. For Selina..." he paused, shook his head, and turned back to the computer. "I know literally nothing about her motives, Alfred. And that... terrifies me."

"I see. And the cryptographer...?"

"He's in the hospital, Alfred. Two broken legs. Besides, Nashton is..." Bruce shook his head. "Too arrogant to just give the secret away. I know his type; the League of Shadows was full of them. Arrogant, overconfident, narcissistic, and intensely self-interested. He'll try to blackmail me. That's the logical progression..." Bruce paused and scribbled something down on his notepad.

Alfred coughed slightly, and pushed the newspaper forward a bit with his forefinger.

"I'm guessing you haven't seen the papers, then, sir."

With a quick glance at Alfred, Bruce picked up the paper and read the headline. Without a word, he turned to an article in the middle of the paper, read it, and swore silently.

"Sir?"

Bruce just shook his head, his jaw clenching tighter and tighter, and dropped the newspaper back onto the tray.

"Idiot," he said, finally. "I underestimated him. I... she distracted me. Of course she did. I should have seen this coming... dammit. For all I know, he planned this from the beginning. Or she did." He lifted one hand and covered his forehead. "Alfred. Get me the strongest cup of coffee you've ever made, and lay out the black Armani. I'm going downtown."

* * *

><p>Thirty-five. Thirty-six. Thirty-seven. Thirty-eight.<p>

A loud knock on the apartment door interrupted the rhythm of Selina's pushup routine, and she sat up, reluctantly, and reached for the sweat towel from the coffee table. Dusk was already shading her window pink, and she glanced at the wall clock. Five fifteen. Who knocked on upscale Gotham apartment doors at five fifteen on a weekday?

"Better not be the Jehovah's Witnesses," she muttered, sauntering to the door. She pushed her eye against the door and frowned. Two large men in suits stood outside, arms akimbo. The taller one wore dark sunglasses. _Cliche much?_

"Hello, can I help you?" Selina asked, opening the door boldly.

"Take it easy, ma'am," the tall one said, holding up his hands appeasingly. "We're just here to deliver a message."

"Mr. Thorne requests the pleasure of your company at dinner tonight," the other man said. "Seven o'clock, Tony Minore's. Nice place, got a great view of the city."

Selina arched an eyebrow.

"Business, or pleasure?"

The men traded looks, and the tall one coughed to hide a smug smile.

"You'll have to ask Thorne himself," he said. "By th' way, I was s'posed to give you this." He pulled a white envelope from his suit coat and handed it to her. "Good day, ma'am."

"Good day," Selina said coolly. She shut the door, pulled the bolt home, and turned over the envelope. There was no name, just a question mark written in green ink. Selina rolled her eyes and tore open the envelope.

HELLO KITTY

A RIDDLE FOR YOU

RCPGCJEORCPGCJCJZJKKJYYDE

CJWKJYUIKOCWOKPIYNUEOYDEYO

DECNOUEDDRYLQJEOIYZ

HYPPIYLEAPQNY?

There was something paper-clipped to the sheet of paper. Selina frowned, turned it over- and stopped. It was the Joker. It was an 8x10 glossy color photograph of the Joker, sitting in a rather dingy office, wearing a dark purple coat and Grinch-green vest, and smiling. He'd even autographed it in what she hoped was red marker-

_Look forward to meeting you, J O K E R_

Selina blinked several times and stared at the picture. On impulse, she turned it over and checked the development date. It was less than two days old.

"That means nothing," she said, thinking aloud. "It could have been taken weeks, months ago."

She flipped the photo back over and frowned, studying it again. Definitely not a Photoshop. Joker actually had one hand on the top desk drawer, as if opening it, and the transition from skin to wood was far too realistic. She focused on the background: it was a dimly lit, ill-kept office, and most of the backdrop was cast in shadow. A beige cylinder- a furnace boiler- filled one corner, and she could just make out a tarnished stovepipe at the top. The walls were covered with papers, and string. Selina squinted and focused on bringing the details out. Green and red string cobwebbed the walls, covering up- typed papers, rap sheets, tabloid interviews, newspaper headlines. Selina could just make one out, a central article circled and recircled in red ink.

WHO IS BATMAN?

"Nashton," Selina growled. She dropped the paper and photograph, tossed her towel at the hamper, and headed for her bedroom. The suit was already laid out on the bed, waiting for her. Time to go downtown.

* * *

><p>Gordon half-turned from his desk and pulled the dusty blinds down slightly. Outside, Bullock was visiting his friend the hot-dog vendor, and maintaining a lively conversation with Flass. Gordon sighed and let the blinds spring back. Things had changed irrevocably in the hospital. Bullock had returned to the station a little more easy-going, a little more cynical, a bit more forgiving and less inquisitive when Flass brought suspects in for interrogation. His arrest rate had dropped twenty percent, and the big detective's new Rolex had not escaped Gordon's sharp eyes.<p>

He'd lost Bullock. Gordon took off his glasses and set them on the desk. He'd betrayed him, sent him back to the darkness of a corrupt cop's life, and Gordon knew full well who to blame. It wasn't Batman's fault. Now, every time Gordon saw Bullock reach for his hip flask, or pat a fellow cop- a dirty cop- on the back, or laugh heartily at one of Flass's jokes... it hurt. Bullock had fallen; the second Harvey Gordon had lost.

There was a sharp knock at the office door, and Gordon looked up quickly.

"Bruce Wayne," he said, rising and offering a hand. "What a... surprise to see you here."

The playboy billionaire was dressed in a ridiculously sharp suit- probably tailored just for him- and played with what looked like gold cuff links. But his face was unusually haggard- too much partying?- and there were dark circles under his eyes.

"Well, you know," Wayne said, carelessly, "I've got to see what my tax dollars are doing. How's it going, Commissioner?"

"Ah-" Gordon reached for his glasses and replaced them. "Fine, Mr. Wayne. We're just fine."

"Really. Well, to be honest, I came down when I heard about, uh, Nestor."

"Nashton," Gordon said.

"Right. Black hair, green eyes, met him at the gala?" Wayne said. "That's him. I read about his accident- er- I heard he'd been kidnapped or something- and then I remembered I lent him, ah, book from my library-" he hesitated significantly.

"And you thought you'd come down and confirm for yourself," Gordon said, beginning to understand. Wayne was curious. It was the old rubbernecking instinct, though why someone as famous as Bruce Wayne would take interest in a common crime was beyond Gordon. Still, famous people must have curiosity too; and Bruce Wayne was far too influential to deny. With a short sigh, Gordon reached for his master keys and nodded to the door. "Honestly, Mr. Wayne, I've been in shock for the past few days. The Joker's escape..." he shook his head. "I haven't had time to look through Nashton's office, but if you'd like to tag along, perhaps you can locate your, uh, book."

"You're too kind," Wayne said, falling in step behind Gordon. "It's a, uh, first edition from my father's library. Lacar or Lacan, something like that. Little brown hardcover."

"Right," Gordon said. He stopped in front of Nashton's office, fitted the key to the lock, and opened the door.

Both men involuntarily took a step back. Nashton's office looked like it had exploded on itself. Papers hung, loose and flapping, from every wall, covering nearly every inch of drywall and metal. Someone had come threw and torn handfuls of clippings off, crumpled them, thrown them on the floor, and the walls were still thick with paper. Red twine hung loose and tangled from the walls as well, an informational cobweb trampled and torn by a giant's foot. Every drawer on the desk was standing open. The chair lay twisted in a corner.

"My God..." Gordon said. "He... destroyed it."

Bruce Wayne stepped past him and into the office, and Gordon hurried behind him.

"Mr. Wayne- Mr. Wayne- please don't touch anything."

"Why, is this a crime scene?" Wayne turned around, blinking in innocent surprise and holding a framed photograph. "Check this out. Guy had a serious cat fetish."

Gordon cringed slightly and took the picture. And stopped. It was the Catwoman- a clear, 8x10 picture of the Catwoman, a picture unreleased to the press. She was standing on a rooftop, hands on her hips, and Gordon could almost feel the energy pulsing from her stance.

And she had a large, wide, red smile scrawled over her face. There was a sticky note attached, written in Nashton's neat, flowing hand.

_Crazy thief._

Gordon shook his head, bewildered. His eyes returned to the smile and Catwoman, and his mind kicked back into action.

"As of right now, this _is _a crime scene," he said. "I'm going to have to ask you to step outside, Mr. Wayne-"

"No prob. Let me know when you find anything," Wayne said easily. "Thanks for showing me around, Commissioner. I should probably be getting back."

The next few moment were a blur. One moment, Gordon was turning to show Wayne out, gingerly clutching the photo frame to avoid placing fingerprints on it, and the next moment he was sprawled on the floor, his stomach throbbing. Gordon looked up and saw a woman in a trench coat- and mask.

"Catwoman," he said. "Listen. You've got to get out-"

She frowned, glanced at the photo, and laughed.

"Yeah, I know, Mr. Happy's all jealous over his boy-friend," she said. "Thanks for the warning. Hi, Bruce." This last was accompanied by a flick of her whip, and a red-faced Bruce Wayne was reeled back into the room. "Can't let you get away that easily."

"You two know each other?" Gordon said, astonished.

"No," Wayne said, through gritted teeth.

"Oh, come on, Brucie. After all we've meant to each other?" Catwoman shook her head, amused. "I actually just stopped in to visit Eddie, but since he's out..." she flicked her wrist, and the whip cracked back to her and coiled at her waist. "I'll just take his message and leave. Oh, and please don't try to follow me. You remember what happened last time we tangled...?"

She blew Wayne a kiss, leaped out of sight, and the door slammed shut behind her.

Almost immediately, Gordon and Wayne hit the door simultaneously. It was locked. Gordon reached for his keys- and realized she'd managed to pick his pocket. Keys, cellphone, and wallet were all gone.

"God damn it!" he swore, hammering on the door. "I don't believe this."

"Relax," Wayne said. "I'll just use my iPhone-" he pulled it out and waggled it enticingly. "-to call for help. Call Alfred."

"You're calling your butler?" Gordon said.

"It's the only permanent number on my cell," Wayne said. "Well, that and Fox. But he's more of a semi-permanent number. Like Selina. And possibly Vesper. Hey, Alfred. Yeah, long story short, the city's most famous cat burglar showed up and locked Gordon and me in the closet. That would be wonderful. Yes. Yes. Thanks so much." He looked up at Gordon. "He called the police. And he's coming to pick me up. Can't wait to tell this story at the club."

Gordon just watched, skeptically, as Wayne popped the phone into his pocket, smiling the wide, vapid, slightly shallow smile of the very rich.

"How do you know Catwoman?" he blurted out. The billionaire paused and covered with another smile.

"Look, I, uh, met her a few years ago on a cruise," he said. "She had the costume, but I thought she was just, you know, into that kind of stuff. We hooked up. She walked off, and so did my wallet. I cancelled my credit cards and deleted her phone number. That's it, I swear."

Gordon looked at him, hard. Wayne determinedly maintained eye contact.

"I'm telling the truth," he said.

"Sure you are, Wayne," Gordon said. "Sure you are."

* * *

><p>Many, many thanks for the reviews! I've long been interested in the BatmanCatwoman dynamic, and the idea of a "love triangle" between Catwoman, Batman and the Joker. The Riddler's involvement (and alliance with the Joker) just thickens the pie... or sweetens the plot... or something like that.

By the way, I will give an in-story shoutout and/or the theme of my next story to the first person to crack Riddler's code.

Peace, love, and Batarangs.


	22. Riddle Me This

"RrrrrRRRRRRNGH!"

Selina ripped the sheet of paper off her notebook, crumpled it, and threw it across the room. It bounced off the wall and landed in a small pile of similar paper balls- the work of four hours trying to decode Nashton's "riddle."

Riddle, schmiddle. The arrogant twat had written a _cipher, _she knew that much. She'd done some heavy-duty research on her laptop, and even resorted to a book from Barnes and Noble, _Cryptography for Dummies, _but to no avail. The green-inked words stared up at her, mocking her.

HELLO KITTY

A RIDDLE FOR YOU

RCPGCJEORCPGCJCJZJKKJYYDE

CJWKJYUIKOCWOKPIYNUEOYDEYO

DECNOUEDDRYLQJEOIYZ

HYPPIYLEAPQNY?

Random words. Nothing. Meaningless. Except, damn it, she _knew _there was a meaning in there somewhere, and (the thought made her blood boil) Nashton knew it too and was using it to taunt her. He was probably laughing at her right now.

Selina bounded off the office chair and planted a high-energy kick into her practice bag. It jerked back a good two feet before slowing and swinging back towards her. Growling, Selina attacked the bag with a series of blows and kicks, venting her anger and frustration on the impact-resistance foam. She really wanted to bring the claws out, but ripping her focus bag apart would cost her a few hundred dollars. While she was angry, she wasn't _that _angry.

The heavy bag jerked and swung in slowing rhythm, and Selina's anger left her in blows. With a heavy sigh, she stepped back from the bag and dropped into the corduroy sofa. She'd hung the practice bag in the middle of her living room and rolled the coffee table aside- now she wished she had something to rest her feet on.  
>Selina glanced over at the kitchen suite and saw the two vases of roses on the counter. She'd forgotten to put them away. She rolled her eyes and looked up at the ceiling.<p>

The first vase of roses- white and yellow, with a few crimsons scattered throughout- were compliments of "Scarface." Who, exactly, Scarface was she didn't know or care; it was probably Dancer or Malone or one of Thorne's mistakenly-trusted lieutenants. Selina closed her eyes, replaying the scene in her mind.

She'd gone to Tony Minore's, an exclusive, expensive, traditional Italian restaurant in Old Gotham, just like Thorne had asked. It was a nice place, too; a bit old and stuffy, all dark wood and tarnished brass, but excellent food. There were pictures on the wall, pictures of famous people sitting and smiling in booths. Arnold Kopski, top pitcher for the Gotham Goliaths in the 40's and 50's. Then-colonel Stanton Vreeland, still in army khakis and sharing a table with three beautiful women. Maroni, Gambol, and the Chechen, staring at the camera with varying degrees of unease, bravado, and defiance. Bruce Wayne... Selina almost laughed at loud.

"Excuse me, lady." There was a hand on her shoulder. She'd turned, and immediately fallen back into a defensive stance. The man was huge, at least six-six and built like a professional wrestler. But his face was empty, almost gentle, and he spoke in an oddly disarming East Chicago accent. "Mr. Thorne couldn't make it tonight."

"Couldn't make it?" she repeated, twisting away with a half-smile. "Why not?"

"Business ain't doin' too well," the big man informed her gravely. "In fact, he ain't doin' too well. But th' boss wanted to invite you to dinner instead. He's... just that kinda guy."

Then she realized what was off about the accent- it was exaggerated, like a stage accent. No, it was a stage accent. She'd heard it before. _The Untouchables. _1930's Chicago. Whoever the big lunk was working for... had interesting tastes. And it intrigued her.

Against her better instincts, she'd followed the man to a dark table in the back. There were two men there, both dark and rather ugly-eyed men in sharp suits, and one was actually wearing a fedora.

"This the dame, Rhino?" he grunted, eyeing Selina with indifference. She returned his glare and filed the name away for later. _Rhino._

"This is Miss Kyle," Rhino said. "Where's th' boss?"

The other man sighed, reached into his jacket pocket, and retrieved a black cell phone. Placing it on the table, he jerked his head at Selina.

"Let's see some ID," he ordered. After Selina had produced a driver's license, and he examined it, he grunted and tossed the card back at her. "Looks good. Okay, lady, listen up and listen good. Thorne... he ain't in good no more. Know what I mean? He's about to take a fall. So if you wanna get in with the group that's going up, you're gonna be dealin' with us from now on. Capiche?"

Selina raised her eyebrows in half-disbelief.

"That has got to be the corniest accent I've ever heard," she said. "You always talk like that, Capone?"

"That's real funny," the man monotoned. "Ha, ha. Ha. Look, I'm laughing. You with us or not?"

"Maybe," Selina said, brushing back a strand of hair and leaning forward. "Whose your boss? I mean..." she rolled her eyes, "level with me. I make it a policy to know, more or less, who I'm working for."

The man didn't reply, just picked up the cell phone, dialed, and handed it to her without a word. Cautiously, she took it, watching Rhino and the other warily, and held it to her ear.

"Hey, who is this?" a terse, gravelly voice barked on the other end. Selina had to bite her lip to keep from smiling- the man's diction was straight from a Coppola movie. Straight.

"Uh, hello? This is Selina Kyle speaking."

"Dis th' Catwoman?" the voice barked. "Good. Great. So what's your problem, sugar?"

"Uh... may I ask who's speaking?"

"Oh, I see. I see. I know what you're asking, dollface, and I don't glame ya." Selina shook her head for a moment, and then realized- he had a speech impediment. Tactfully, she ignored it and kept listening. "Ya wanna know th' score. Okay. The name's Scarface, just Scarface, and you'll ge working for us. For the Family. See, I know what you're thinkin'. You're thinkin' Rhino and Dancer there are frontin' one of the freaks. You know the freaks. I hate them. Hate 'em! An' I know you hate 'em too, cause you can't predict 'em. You know what I'm talkin' about. Ya work for the Joker, for th' 'Scarecrow,' might as well reserve your slag at th' morgue. They don't have nothing, no courage, no honor! Everything's going ta hell in Gotham since th' Joker showed up. The old families, the soldiers, they all went up in flames. I'm gonna make sure that _never_ happens again. We're gonna take down the freaks, Joker first, then Gatman. Kill 'em gothe, turn the clock gack ta how it used ta ge."

"I... see. And what about the fact that I wear a mask? I mean, if I thought, say, that you were hiring me to set me up or kill me..." Selina laughed and let the sentence dangle.

"Nah, you're not a freak," Scarface growled. "Least not yet. You're a thief under contract. You stick to th' contract, ya won't have ta worry agout a thing."

And she'd said yes. Partly out of concern for her own safety, partly out of... monetary desire, but mainly out of curiosity, she'd agreed to work for the Family. Which family, exactly, was never specified, which just increased her intrigue. What kind of man could Scarface be? The voice was so rough, so accented... but so natural. Unlike the stilted, artificial accents of Rhino, Dancer, and "Mugsy," Scarface's speech patterns were free, unaffected, natural.

In her apartment, Selina dropped onto the sofa and shook her head. Such a pity Nashton had gone AWOL. She could have used his help about now, tracing the order of flowers "Scarface" had sent her. She'd tracked it to a Flowers-2-Go near the Sprang River, but Nashton would have been able, somehow, to find the call that ordered it. Her eyes fell on Nashton's note, and Selina's frustration rose again. Why did Nashton have to make everything so hard? Abruptly, she leaned over and picked up her cell phone. Time for a little... distraction.

* * *

><p>Bruce Wayne was sound asleep when his cell phone rang. Startled, he jolted straight upright and instinctively swept the area for enemies. That was when he realized that A) it was late afternoon, and B) someone had carried him upstairs to his bedroom. And his cell phone was ringing. With a groan, Bruce rubbed his eyes and reached for the phone. Selina Kyle.<p>

Damn. If it was Fox or one of his "foreign investors," he'd just leave it. It had been a long, long day, compounded by lack of sleep and stress from his four-hour interrogation session with Detectives Flass and Bullock over his connection with the Catwoman. He'd finally managed to sell them his cruise ship story, staggered home, and collapsed in front of the computer. Reluctantly, Bruce flipped open the phone and held it to his ear.

"Hello?"

"Oh, my God. I didn't wake you up, did I?" Selina asked.

"Uh... just a quick nap," he lied.

"Ooh. Didn't get any sleep last night, huh? Should I be jealous?"

"What? Oh. Oh, no, I just... fell asleep by the pool. So." Bruce swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "What's up?"

"Nothing much. I'm just... hanging out in my apartment... kinda bored... _lonely..."_

Bruce half-smiled, half-winced. She couldn't have given him a bigger clue, and if the request had come just two days earlier, he'd have jumped at the opportunity, but now... no. His work came first.

"Listen, Selina, I'm not sure..." he paused, trying to think of the words. "I'd love to come over, spend a day in the sun, but... I can't."

"Why, what's wrong?"

"I..." Bruce sighed and shook his head slowly. "I'm really busy. Work, you know."

"_Yeah. _Look, Bruce, I actually... I want to talk. It's important. I have something to show you."

"Selina, I don't think-" he stopped, weighed his options, and shrugged. "What time?"

* * *

><p>Even in late spring, when the cold water was still clinging to the lampposts and store windows, when the stage shows and operas had already been running for months and the New Year fashion releases were old hat, Gotham Square was <em>the <em>place to be. The glossy windowfronts glittered with tasteful, high-end tableaux, the bistros had achieved that perfect balance of chicness and approachability, the central avenue itself was carefully and immaculately policed, so the gleaming stream of traffic never interfered with the hauteur of the fashionable pedestrians.

Only natural, then, that acknowledged society prince Bruce Wayne and elegantly mysterious Selina Kyle should walk hand-in-hand down Avenue A, impeccably dressed, indubitably happy! The cameras flashed at every corner, and a rather infamous tabloid writer leapt from her table to flag the couple down. Could they, would they, confirm status as a couple? Could it be! Bruce Wayne, that most elusive of bachelors, had fallen prey at last! But Wayne only laughed heartily, and the woman made some sly and rather sharp comment, accompanied with a very- expressive look, so the writer thought best to retreat. No confirmation- but still! The new attachment would make headlines.

"You know, it's funny," Selina commented, quickening her step to keep up with Bruce. "You really don't like the spotlight, do you?"

Bruce chuckled.

"And you do?"

"Who doesn't? Besides you, I mean." Selina let one hand coil around his upper arm and heard the satisfying chorus of camera clicks. "See? Just like that, I made headlines."

"I prefer privacy," he said abruptly.

"For the real stuff, of course," Selina said. "But it's fun to just... give them a bit of untruth and watch the ball go from there. Speculation through the roof! And don't tell me you don't exploit as much as I do, Mr. Ballet Troupe No Show."

"But we can't... talk here," he said, his face alternating between serious and fake, prime-time half smiles. "I mean, you said-"

"It's a favor, for a friend," Selina said, "It's complicated. He, uh, well, he thinks someone's stalking one of his... girlfriends. Like I said, it's complicated. But she got a few threatening letter, and then some whacko sent this- weird code letter. I looked at it. Crazy. But I thought... well, you know Commissioner Gordon so well. Maybe you could, you know, have him take a look at it."

Bruce raised an eyebrow, but nodded.

"I'll, uh, see what I can d-"

Suddenly, the lights flickered. Off, and on. Off. On. Off.

On.

As one, Bruce and Selina turned and saw the huge screen over Gotham Square turn to snow, and then- then, a _very _familiar face filled the screen, blinking and baring his teeth in a mock smile and giggling faintly. The camera jittered over a paste-white face, a mouth like a bloody gash, and two sooty eyes.

"Hiiiiiii," the Joker said. "Hi. Hey. Um." He licked his lips, the camera shaking and getting half his face and some blurry grey background. "Don't, uh, freak out just yet. I'm here, just, just as a favor for a _friend. _Weee'rrrre going on a little t_rip _together."

The camera dipped downwards and became slightly more smooth, and then it panned upwards and Bruce's heart almost stopped. Edward Nashton. He was sitting at a desk, his hands folded carefully on the table, but...

His coat was bottle-green, his bowler hat matched it perfectly. He wore a featureless white domino mask, a purple tie, and a pair of dark, ragged, and very familiar purple gloves. His face looked different, somehow- drawn and white, the easy smile replaced by a dangerous hardness. His head was tipped forward slightly, and his eyes glittered brilliantly from the shadow of the hat. There was something sharp and vaguely disturbing about his whole posture.

"Hello, Gotham City," Nashton said. "We're going to play a little game. But first, let me introduce myself. My name is Edward Nigma, and this is my first recorded homicide."

Selina covered her mouth.

"Oh God," she breathed.

The picture changed, suddenly. The Joker's psychotic giggle still echoed in the background, but it was dark, and the camera was aimed at an enormous, slightly dingy light sign. KYOTO SUSHI HEAVEN BUFFET.

"We're going out to eat," came the Joker's voice, off-camera. The camera shuddered and wavered across a trashy parking lot, up a brick wall, and caught a bottle-green coat back. Nashton was apparently not walking right; his shoulder hitched and jerked forward. A minute later, he stepped into full view, and Selina gasped. Both legs were in casts, that was easy to see, and there was a dark dried stain down the back of one knee. Nashton leaned heavily on a cane and waved a handgun at the diners with the other. The Joker had apparently stopped in the doorway, because the camera caught nearly all of the crowded diner.

Nashton fired into the ceiling. Everyone stopped, frozen.

"Please, don't move," Nashton snapped. A dirty wife-beater blocked the camera, and Joker's hand zoomed and swatted the man on the shoulder.

"Silly Bob," came Joker's whisper. "He's blocking the shot. Hey, Bob! Bob, move!"

The goon stepped aside. Nashton was looking the diners over, flanked by two burly men in black shirts. He stopped in front of a brunette woman with a little boy. She immediately reached for her purse.

"P-please, sir, I don't have much-" she stammered. "I, just, I- please don't hurt me!"

"Relax," Nashton replied, almost patronizingly. "I'm not going to."

Without warning, the gun in his hand went off. A red star blossomed on the boy's forehead, and he dropped out of sight. The mother screamed and fell to the floor next to him. Behind the camera, the Joker started laughing.

"Now, now, don't be afraid," Nashton snapped, aiming his gun across the room. "This isn't going to be a killing spree. I just need one more."

The camera suddenly moved into the room, shaking with the Joker's steps, and zoomed in on a man in the back. He was heavy-set, obviously wealthy, and wore a red carnation in his brown suit lapel. As if on cue, Nashton's gun came up.

"Ah, you sir, in the back. You should do..." BOOM. Even with the silencer, the gun was eerily loud. "...perfectly." The fat man in the brown suit stared at the camera, blankly, before sliding to his knees and falling out of sight. The camera jerked up and focused on Nashton, who was carefully putting his handgun into his belt. He looked up at the camera and smiled the way a shark smiles as it approaches the surfboard.

"Commissioner James Gordon. You have exactly two days to confess to the good people of Gotham," Nashton said, enunciating clearly and definitively. "You may call in whomever you want. But you must tell them... the truth."

At that, Joker really started laughing. The camera dropped to the floor, bounced and flipped over several times, and stopped with the camera half-aimed at a table leg. The Joker just kept laughing.

For one moment, Gotham Square was perfectly silent. Then, abruptly, everyone turned and headed straight for his car, for his house, for his cellphone, all with the same thought: get out of Gotham City.

"Selina." Bruce had his cellphone in his hand. "I'm so sorry, something's come up-"

"It's okay," Selina said. "I understand perfectly."


	23. You Scratch My Back

Gordon was in his office when Bullock ran in, white-faced. Without a word, he switched on the television. GCN. The camera bounced around, shaking, catching a bloody grin, a chin, half a left eye. Gordon went still. It was happening again.

Then he saw Nashton. Edward Nashton, sitting at a desk. But there was something different about his face- the sharp shadows, the hardness in his smile, the way his eyes looked out from behind the mask- and Gordon knew, without a doubt. Edward Nashton, cryptographer extraordinaire, was gone. This was someone completely different.

"My God," Gordon said. "He's... one of them."

And then the camera panned upwards, and Gordon saw the restaurant name. It would be too late- he knew that- but he stood up quickly, reached for his gun.

"Let's go," he said. "Let's go stop these sons of bitches."

* * *

><p>The Kyoto Sushi Heaven Buffet was empty when the police stormed the front doors. They burst in, guns ready, SWAT teams advancing with their shields and riot masks, and encountered dead silence.<p>

The tables were knocked over each other, chairs tumbled together helter-skelter, the floor spattered with rice and dark sauce. And blood. A thick, sticky pool of rusty red had formed in the center of the room. In the middle lay two bodies.

"Careful," Gordon shouted, as the men stopped in confusion. "There may a trap. I want wire check, now."

"Commish," Bullock said, hurrying up behind Gordon. "The video was at night, right? So how come they ain't give us a ring yet? I mean, what I'm sayin' is..." he shook his head and stared at the scene of chaos. "Where is everybody?"

"We're clear!" the SWAT leader shouted, and Gordon nodded and stepped in.

"I... don't know," he said. He bent over the bodies, closing his eyes briefly. The boy was young, so young. Almost... Jamie's age. They'd been dead for hours now, that was clear to see. The bodies were stiff and cold, and somehow, the way they looked glued to the floor by their own blood, Gordon's mind flashed back to a time in boyhood when he had emptied the mousetraps. Dead.

And they were wearing pins in their lapels. I BELIEVE IN HARVEY DENT. At least the Joker hadn't cut their faces.

"We got a note here!" yelled the SWAT leader. He held up the piece of paper with gloved hands. "Uh, it says, 'It's so cold.'"

"It's so cold?" someone echoed.

Behind gordon, Bullock drew his breath in quickly.

"Somebody check th' freezer!" he yelled.

Three officers disappeared into the kitchen, and Gordon heard the heavy click-sssssshch of the walk-in freezer door.

"They're here!" came a shout. "They're- someone call an ambulance!"

* * *

><p>It was an uncanny feeling. The sun was shining, the sky a radiant summer-blue with whorls of white cloud. Down the street, the sound of Latin music and people talking floated up from a group of Hispanic men loitering by the 711.

Bruce shifted his weight slightly and winced at the floorboards' creak. The old apartment complex had been condemned for almost two years; thankfully, no one had bothered to tear it down yet. Batman needed a watching place, especially in the daylight. Behind him, a cat yowled and scampered away.

Below, Gordon and Bullock were just exiting the sushi restaurant. Bruce flicked the control on his cowl-binoculars and zoomed in on their faces. Not good. Two ambulances had just pulled up, and Bullock was gesturing angrily and shaking his head. Bruce wished he had some way to listen in; what were they saying?

Then he saw what Bullock was motioning towards- the paramedics' gurneys. The gestures were clear enough. _Not enough gurneys. _Bruce turned his cowl vision back to normal and stood up, his jaw tightening. Nashton must have killed them all. And Joker...

He couldn't let himself get distracted by anger. He needed to stay focused, to think. Nashton (and/or the Joker) must have killed all the witnesses. That explained why the murder was filmed at night but never reported. But why hit the buffet in the first place? Why kill only two, and those specific two? _You'll do._ It couldn't be random. It was... another damn riddle.

_You'll do. _The victims were chosen at sight. Both male, but little else in common-

and then it hit him.

Everything swirled together in Bruce's mind- Nashton's "foreign connections," his work with the CIA, _very coincidental- with one of my own projects, _one boy and one man, the Joker's support, _my grandfather was one of the chess players employed by the British intelligence in World War II, _Kyoto Sushi Heaven- and, just as when Bruce used to lie on his back and look for pictures in the clouds, and one afternoon realized, with a little shock, that the whole of the cloudscape came together into the great staring shape of an eye, the information all fitted. It fitted perfectly. A feeling of horror washed over Bruce, and he shook his head, quickly. The stakes had just gone up tenfold.

Quickly checking the street for possible SWAT ambushes, Bruce fired his grapple at the Sushi Heaven and swung out the window. He had to get to Gordon as soon as possible.

* * *

><p>Selina crouched atop the building, watching the street impatiently. Why wasn't Bruce here yet? She'd been waiting for nearly twenty minutes, perched on a narrow and uncomfortable catwalk atop a condemned apartment building. The police were already parked outside the sushi place, plus two ambulances. Oh, and they were bringing people out on gurneys now.<p>

"Damn, Nashton," Selina muttered to herself. "How many people did you kill?"

Oh, but they weren't dead yet. The first two gurneys had black body bags, but the second, the third, the fourth all had people with orange blankets. So, not dead. But hurt- they were all going into the ambulance.

FOOM! Selina jumped in spite of herself as something large and black exploded from the window six feet below her. Catching herself, she smiled and flexed her hands.

"Hello, Bruce," she murmured, as the Batman swung across the street and landed with surprising grace in the alley. Finally, they could start again. Selina closed her eyes briefly and opened them, Catwoman, breathing in deep as the adrenaline started flowing. It was like waking up after a long sleep- it was like suddenly being alive. Moving with liquid grace, Catwoman leaped off the building and swung to a nearby rooftop. Time to give Bruce a little surprise.

* * *

><p>Gordon saw something black and billowing vanish into the alley, and straightened up abruptly.<p>

"Take over, captain," he said, to the SWAT leader. "I need a smoke."

"Yeah, me too," Bullock said, before Gordon could say anything. "Don't worry, it won't be a moment." When they were a few feet away, he said to Gordon, half-under his breath, "I didn't know you smoked."

"I do now," Gordon said grimly. They walked to the back of the alley in silence. Gordon took out a pack of Marlboros, selected one, and-

"Need a light?" a throaty voice rasped. Both men jumped and turned to see the city's most wanted vigilante standing a few feet away, hands folded over his chest.  
>He tossed something to Gordon. A cigarette lighter.<p>

"So you're the Batman," Bullock said, rubbing his chin. "I'm-"

"Detective Harvey Bullock, formerly of NYPD," Batman rasped. "I know. Are you with us?"

"I'm with the Commish," Bullock said. "Why'd you kill those cops, Bats?"

"He's with us," Gordon interrupted. "Why the sudden visit? I thought you only operated at night."

"I've been working overtime," growled Batman. Then, abruptly: "We've got to evacuate the city."

"What?" Gordon shook his head. "What do you mean?"

"The murder," rasped Batman. "It's a riddle. The victims weren't random. He's trying to give us a message."

"A message," Gordon said, searching his mind. "By murdering- a little boy and a businessman? What's that supposed to mean?"

"Not a businessman. A fat businessman. He chose the victims for their age and weight. A little boy and a fat man."

Gordon's mind reeled, and his jaw fell open.

"My God..." he said. "In a Japanese restaurant, too... my God. He's going to destroy the city." Batman turned to go, and Gordon caught him by the arm. "Wait. Wait. The cost is... it's not worth it. I'll confess. We'll confess. Our partnership, Harvey Dent, everything. Better a broken city than a burning one."

"Go ahead, but evacuate anyway," Batman said. "Remember, he's working with the Joker."  
>He turned and shot a grapple at a nearby building.<p>

"Hey, Commish, I don't get it," Bullock protested. "I mean, what's he mean, fat boy and little man- er, er, the other way 'round?"

"World War II," Gordon said, grimly. "It ended when the Allies dropped two bombs- the Little Boy and the Fat Man- on Japan. Nuclear weapons, Bullock. That's what the riddle means."

* * *

><p>Catwoman muffled a gasp and fell back against the corner. Nuclear weapons? Couldn't be. No, it couldn't. It was absurd- people didn't just find nuclear weapons lying around... oh damn. Her mind went back to Chicago, and before Chicago. It made sense, now.<p>

"Nashton, you bastard," she whispered. Quickly, she flicked her whip up, got a running start, and swung to a nearby fire escape. Forget the games of cat-and-mouse- she had to catch Bruce before he dropped off the face of the earth again. She saw the black cape sliding over a rooftop across the avenue and readied herself for the chase. Catwoman leaped to a ladder, swung nimbly to the rooftop, and started running.

It was an odd sensation, chasing Batman, and it felt strangely wrong. She should be the one leading the dance, not him. She should be the one in front, taunting him, choosing their path, leading him onward- not following him. She landed on a tiled roof with a slight thump and grimaced. And there was the Bat-motorcycle. Time to cut him off before he really made tracks.

Taking the wrist from her belt, she flicked her wrist expertly and sent the balled end coiling around Batman's wrist. He jerked to a halt, two balconies above and twenty feet from his cycle, and turned to look at her. Selina gulped. If looks could kill...

The next moment, the whip lunged forward, and she was tumbling off the rooftop before she could stop herself. Quickly, she let go of the whip and desperately clawed at the building side for purchase. Her hands met a thin gutter pipe, and she stopped abruptly, dangling a few feet above Batman's head.

"What do you want?" he snarled, tossing the whip into the alley behind him. "Why do you keep following me?"

Selina immediately swung her feet out of his reach, digging into the rough brick with her toes and planting her claws into the decayed grout. He was not pulling her down.

"Whoa, whoa, take it easy," she said. "I'm here to help you."

His eyes narrowed, and before Selina could think, something shining flew up at her. Acting purely on instinct, she dodged, and the bat-a-rang buried itself several inches into the brick.

"I'm here to help you!" she shouted. "Listen. Bruce. We've got a good thing going here- and don't tell me you don't like it, too." He made a move for his belt, and she tightened her grip on the wall. "But Nashton... he's threatening to end it all."

Bruce's eyes widened a little, but his jaw tension did not relent.

"So?" he growled.

"So I'm proposing a... a little reciprocity," Selina said. "A little give-and-take. You scratch my back, I'll scratch yours. You see, I know Nashton. I know where he got his little surprise, and, possibly, where he's storing it." Yeah. 'Possibly' as in 'I'm sure you'll figure it out.'

"What do you want in return?" Batman rasped.

"Oh, I don't know..." Selina arched an eyebrow. "But when I think of it, I'll let you know."

Under the mask, Bruce's brow furrowed. He stopped with one hand on his belt, eyes locked on hers, and stood there. Selina stared back, her face still in a half-smile, and waited. Come on, Bruce... make the right choice.

Slowly, deliberately, he lowered his hand, and, as if on cue, they both breathed again. Selina managed a smile, and Bruce stepped back and gestured to the motorcycle.

"Get on. Let's go someplace we can talk."

* * *

><p>"Ya know, you're gonna have to eat sometime," the Joker called, testing his new knife blade against his hand.<p>

Behind him, in the office, Nashton didn't even look up. He'd holed up in the old manager's office and was, by all appearances, cocooning himself in newspaper and cramped, green-inked sheets of paper. Out of curiousity, the Joker had picked a handful of them up, and Nashton- or Nigma, as he was calling himself now- had turned on him with a snarl. Oh, and he wouldn't eat. It was amusing, really. Eddie was paranoid- not that Joker blamed him, really, considering the company he was keeping- but it was funny to watch him slipping.

The first day, he'd been okay with eating the burger Joker brought him. A few days afterwards, Joker caught Eddie staring at him; the boy flinched as soon as Joker raised an eyebrow, but he could tell- he was still staring. Then Eddie wouldn't eat anything the Joker brought. Joker had reprimanded him for this and stabbed him in the thumb, but it didn't really work. The boy wouldn't eat anything Joker brought, and then he wouldn't eat anything the hired help dragged in unless it was unopened. Yesterday morning, he'd looked at the factory-sealed bag of potato chips brought in by Bob, looked at Bob and then the Joker suspiciously, and announced he wasn't hungry.

Which meant Eddie Nigma was now running on pain medication and bottled water. He'd started glancing over his shoulder too, and writing all his notes in cramped gibberish- probably a code. Joker found this hilarious. He'd even played a few, uh, pranks on Eddie, just to screw with him, and the effects were more than worth it. Eddie was jumping at shadows, rigging up all the drawers in the office with hairs or paper sheets stuck in the top (evidence of, uh, tampering) and so forth, checking for bugs under his desk every morning, and even starting to look at the goons funny.

It was goddamn hilarious.

Joker threw open the door, and Nigma immediately dropped his paper and aimed the gun at Joker's head. Joker laughed. He was liking Nigma better every day.

"So, uh, Eddie, whacha workin' on?" he asked, ignoring the weapon aimed at him. Eddie sighed, lowered the gun, raised it again with a suspicious look at the Joker, and finally lowered it. He checked the ammunition, switched the safety on with shaking hands, and shoved the gun into his belt.

"The trap you asked for," Nigma said. He reached over and pulled from between the desk and the wall an enormous sheet of blueprint paper. Joker raised his eyebrows and bent over for a closer look, causing Nigma to jump. Joker chuckled and patted him on the head.

"Lighten up, will ya? Okey dokey, what are we lookin' at here?"

"A trap," Nigma said. "It's..." he glanced over Joker's shoulder and motioned for him to shut the door. Joker rolled his eyes and kicked it shut. "It's a trap, a perfect trap," Nigma said, his voice going quite and cold. "The Batman and, probably, Catwoman will be looking for some kind of nuclear weapon. They will focus on the decoy here, triggering one of three light sensors as they approach, which will cause the inner and outer doors to slide shut and lock. I've contacted my, ah, source in the Russion mob (or what remains of it) and ordered several electronics jammers. You see, I believe I know _how _the Batman was able to track you last-"

Joker's hand was suddenly covering Nigma's mouth.

"Eddie," Joker said simply, "you talk too much. Just, uh, put in simple words. I'm a man of simple tastes, you know... where do I come in?"

"Ah," Nigma said, scrubbing his mouth with a napkin and leaning away from Joker. "It's, ah, quite simple. As soon as they're trapped in there, enter Joker stage right, armed with knives and machine guns and other- wonderful- weapons-" he stopped to spit behind him. "The jammers will ensure Batman can't cheat in the fight, or move around much. You get all the advantages of spatial familiarity and-" Joker glared at him, and he rephrased. "You have the advantage in this fight because you're a better ground fighter, a brawler if you will, while Batman relies on movement and the element of surprise. The Catwoman similarly relies on the ability to move and attack from multiple angles. Essentially, this forces them to meet you on your turf."

Joker grinned, licked his scars, and clapped Nigma on the shoulder.

"Eddie," he said. "You're a doll."


	24. Question Authority

VOOOOOOOOM! The cityscape flashed by in a rush of wind and fractured grey buildings, sharp, stuttered shreds of conversations and shouts flying past in the motorcycle's pickup. No one had ever seen Batman in the daytime. And, better yet... Selina chuckled and leaned a little closer to her companion on the cycle, wickedly enjoying his muscles tensing... the Batman _and _the city's most authentic cat burglar. This would make the national, possible international news.

Suddenly, it was dark. Something in Selina's mask whirred, and then she was seeing a winding tunnel in purple and blue and fluorescent green, with specks of red and pink scrabbling along the walls. She didn't know which was more impressive, Nashton's tech or Bruce's second cave. The cycle growled to a halt and Bruce swung off, stiffly.

"Oh, Brucie," Selina purred, glancing all around the walls- camera, camera, infrared laser, titanium bar, camera- "I thought only the villains lived in the sewers."

"Enough games," he rasped. There was a computer, too (why was she not surprised?), and he tapped a long and probably one-time-use password into the mainscreen. The lock sprung away to reveal a window marked "cityview", a tab of , and eight pages of profiles on Edward Nashton. Selina was secretly gratified to see a minimized profile of her own near the start button.

"Tell me what you know," he ordered. Selina shrugged.

"About what?" she said, but stopped when she saw his jaw clench even tighter. Right. Enough games. "Edward Nashton... isn't what you call a simple man. I met him in Chicago. Long story."

_She was standing at the edge of the building, heart racing, mind adrenaline-sharp. Every fiber of her felt awake, awake, every detail of the city in stark, slow detail. God, she never wanted this feeling to stop. _

_She heard the click in delicious slowness and turned before the safety had even switched off. It was a big gun. Smooth. Cold. The man's eyes were green, and they stared at her with the same burning intensity that pulsed through her. The thrill..._

"Don't get jealous, but we ended up... together. Nothing serious, just a quick fling."

_Selina cartwheeled forward, under the dim, distant report of the gun, and leaped feet-first for Nashton's chest. He tried to stand, but her momentum was too great. And then she had him by the arm, they were fighting, and suddenly he twisted back in an unexpected move and she was pushed- she was falling-_

"I found out a lot about him. Turns out he has connections. A lot of connections. At the time, he was working with a man called R'as al Ghul. Strictly off the books."

_She stood in the shadows, heart pounding, and waited for him to arrive. The office was a black-and-white photograph brought to life, no color in the dim twilight seeping through the high blinds. She hefted the knife behind her back and forced herself to breathe slowly. The door opened, and she almost- almost stepped forward-_

_It was an older man, nondescript, light hair, long coat. But he could handle himself all right- every step he took radiated skill and power. Selina froze and melted back into the shadows.  
><em>

_"You're early, Mr. Nashton," he drawled. He'd picked up one of Nashton's desk toys- a Chinese puzzle box- and pressed the two sides together, abruptly. The box split, and the man placed it back on the desk. "But that's enough. Come out of the shadows. Let's speak face-to-face."_

_Selina froze for a split second- she could fight, she could stab, reach the window in one sharp smooth leap- and stepped out into the colorless half-light. He was surprised, but hid it well.  
><em>

"R'as al Ghul wasn't... what you call a nice man. He runs an international organization, very powerful, very secret."

"The League of Shadows," Batman rasped, and Selina arched an eyebrow.

"That explains a lot," she said. "I didn't know you were friends. Well, Nashton- and I- we played them."

"Who?"

"All of them."

_Selina dodged a blow from the man in black, whirled back, parried a chop, and sent the man- no, he was on her now, twisting her arm behind her in an odd, painful blow- and then there was a soft phut, and he went limp.  
><em>

_"You can't be seen here again," Nashton said, re-knotting his tie and replacing his gun. He winced as he finished the tie, but straightened. "I've disabled the cameras, but Ra's will find out."_

_His face was a blank slate, his eyes carefully distant. Selina chuckled, half a laugh and half a growl, and brushed a strand of dark hair behind her ear. She stepped over the body and tapped in the security code, just watching Nashton's face to savor that quick, nervous look of surprise.  
><em>

_"What's the matter, Eddie?" she asked. "I thought you said you had the perfect blind. The League steals weapons all the time..." she got behind the heavy cart and hefted her weight against it. Draped in white, strapped to an emergency gurney, the missile looked almost human. Like a dead body. Selina shook the thought off- the power of association. They were invincible tonight, together. By the time the CIA realized the confiscated warhead had vanished...  
><em>

_"Yes, well, it's not that I'm worried about," Nashton muttered. He stepped aside to let her past and walked back outside the locker, toying with something in his belt. "It's... convincing Ra's that I didn't steal it from him."  
><em>

_Selina carefully rolled the missile against a wall and let it go, wincing when it mashed her finger against the concrete.  
><em>

_"I'm sure you'll think of something."  
><em>

_"I already have."  
><em>

_Something his tone of voice alerted her, and Selina looked up just in time to catch a bullet to the right shoulder. She snarled in pain and leaped for him, but he'd stepped back out of reach, and her shoulder was on fire. She hit the ground and hissed. Agony. Agony.  
><em>

_"There's ten grand in the car," Nashton said, his voice remote and quiet.  
><em>

_"Stolen from the League, no doubt?" she managed to say.  
><em>

_"From the CIA. You're quite a clever thief, and very convincing. In fact, you broke my collarbone." A smug pause. "It was terribly painful, but I've had practice. A trick my dad showed me."  
><em>

_"Cry me a river," Selina spat.  
><em>

_"I would, but I'm not sure you can swim." He shifted, glanced up the hallway. "All in all, it's not a bad deal. You're ten thousand dollars richer and twice as notorious... in the right sense. I see a great and glorious career in burglarly ahead, Miss Kyle, and I may even use you again myself. Just make sure you stay ahead of Ra's." _

_"Bastard!" Selina's breath was ragged, and she pulled herself up with the wall. "You lied to me!"  
><em>

"And then..." Selina shrugged. "He left me. Bastard. And you know what really tops it? I'd never have gone there alone, with him, if I wasn't planning to cross him and take off with the missile myself." She chuckled bitterly. "But he knew that, I'm sure. Played right into his hand." Selina raised her head, defiant. "But really, I should thank Eddie. I didn't have much experience before then; I was just a, a bit player, a con girl. Kiss 'em and crack the safe. Afterwards, with all the running and fighting and robbing and hiding... I got a lot of experience."

"I'm sorry."

It was a useless gesture, and they both knew it. Selina gave him a half-smile and shook her head.

"Don't be," she said. "Nashton's going to pay, sooner or later. I'm just waiting for him to relax a little." He looked at her a little, eyes flickering concern under all the darkness, and she felt a twinge of- something. Hesitation? Regret? Doubt?

"Where is he keeping the bomb?" rasped Bruce, and she shook it off. The bomb. Right.

"Okay, I should probably admit that I lied. I don't know where the bomb is. But I do know where to find Eddie."

* * *

><p>BAM! The outer door banged shut, and Joker sighed and shook his head. Grudgingly, he mashed the remote control and muted Teena Grave's latest speculation on Bruce Wayne's love life. Just when it was getting good, some idiot had to break in and need killing. Figured.<p>

Joker grabbed the sawed-off from the pillow and headed for the door. On second thought, he rummaged in his pocket for his thin knife, the serrated Ginsu one he'd ordered from the infomercial. Might as well have some fun with this.

Something crashed in the office, and Joker suppressed a giggle. Man, this guy was going to jump out of his-

He barely felt his leg hit something thin and light, and something clattered behind the door-

BAM! The door flew open, and Joker was face-to-face with Edward Nashton. He'd changed his clothes, brushed his hair back, and crammed a granola bar into his mouth with one hand while aiming a small, oddly elongated handgun at the Joker. But that wasn't what caught the clown's attention. Nashton's suit, formerly dark black with a green tie, was crimson. Red soaked his pants, his shirt, his jacket, dripped down the gun barrel to join a small red puddle on the floor. There were flecks of red on his mask, his crooked white domino mask. Nashton stared at Joker, face drawn and distant, and took another bite of his granola bar. Joker whistled.

"Y'know... I've never seen a gun quite like that before," he said. "Is that one of those top-secret government jobs, Magnum research experimental jobs?"

"45-70," Nashton said, his voice near a whisper.

"I like your _style. _And uh, speaking of which, you're kind of a mess. Why did you trash my suit?"

Nashton blinked, looked almost sad for a moment, then smiled. Slowly. Darkly. Joker smiled with him, biting back a giggle.

"Riddle me this," Nashton said. "Riddle me that. Who got too close to the big black bat?"

* * *

><p>With a sigh, Gordon propped himself up on his desk and rubbed his eyes wearily. It was late afternoon, and he had the blinds down to keep out the sun- the dim room was too much of a temptation to sleep. Gordon switched on a side lamp. The room was empty. Bullock had left just after breakfast, citing a need to get on the streets and get info fast.<p>

Gordon knew, or suspected, what was happening. But every time he tried to talk to Bullock, not confront him, just ask, the walls went up. "Sir, I have the phone records for you right here, completely filed." "Whatever you need, sir, just let me know." "With all due respect, sir, I b'lieve Flass might have a better feel for the atmosphere than me."

Sir. Gordon never thought one little word could hurt so much.

Downing his lukewarm coffee in one gulp, Gordon knocked aside the glossy photo of himself, Nashton, and the mayor at Wayne's party and began scanning the electrical records again. Patterns, that had been Nashton's watchwords, there had to be a pattern somewhere...

There was a knock at the door.

"Get in here, Bullock," Gordon called without looking up. "Took you long enough."

"I'm not Detective Bullock."

That got Gordon's attention. He put down the records.

"Flass."

The burly lieutenant grinned and removed his toothpick.

"Got it in one, Chief. So, uh, I know I'm not exactly the golden boy around here, but I thought you'd like to hear the news."

"What news?"

"It's Nashton. Someone phoned in half an hour ago, saw him walking through a neighborhood in the Somerset district. Said he was wearin' a Halloween getup, green coat, green hat, looked like an overgrown leprechaun."

"Somerset?" Gordon frowned. "The suburbs? What could he possibly want out there?"

* * *

><p>The crime scene cameras flashed on every side, and Gordon turned away, choking down bile. Just when you thought you'd seen it all.<p>

"God damn it," he said quietly, forcing himself to stare at the demolished living room, to stare out the windows at the setting sun, not to look back over his shoulder, not to think about the kitchen. "He'd insane."

Flass swallowed, looking uncomfortable himself.

"I called Wincott and Jones, had them pick up Mrs. Reese and hold her at the station," he said.

"Good." Gordon tipped his head back and let it rest against the stucco wall. "Good. She shouldn't have to see this."

The kitchen floor was white linoleum, but it was now white with red, red, red. Red on the walls. The refrigerator. The open dishwasher, clean plates and crystal glasses splashed with congealing blood. It was like something from a nightmare.

In the middle of the floor, drenched in blood and wearing an I BELIEVE IN HARVEY DENT pin, Coleman Reese's body lay contorted on its side. The arms were curved above the shoulders, the torso slightly bent, the knees drawn partially and curved together. About a foot below his designer leather loafers, Coleman's Reese decapitated head stood on its stump, eyes staring blankly at the wall.

Viewed from above, the corpse resembled a crude question mark.

"Where's Bullock?" Gordon asked.

"Out finding information," Flass informed him curtly. "Whatsamatter, you think he's gonna split on you or something?"

* * *

><p>CLUNK. Bullock set down the heavy glass mug and laughed heartily as amber liquid spilled over the top. Across the table, Rhino and Mugsy laughed with him, and Mugsy clinked his mug amiably against Bullock's.<p>

"Know why I couldn't work with Thorne?" Bullock said, taking out a cigarette and letting Rhino light it for him. "'Cause he's an asshole. A stupid asshole. Now you, you guys... you're smart. You know how to stay inside the law."

"Oh, yeah," Mugsy said. "The boss knows all 'bout dat."

"And you know what I really like 'bout your boss?" Bullock said. "He don't tolerate the freaks. The masks." He took a long swig of beer and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. "Joker. Batman. Catwoman. Riddler. They're all the same. Butchers. To hell with 'em."

"To hell with 'em," Rhino and Mugsy repeated, and they all drank.

"Okay," said Bullock, setting the mug back down with a heavy thunk. "Guess you boys know I'm not here just for the fun of it." Rhino and Mugsy traded looks, but didn't move. "I'm looking for some information. Edward Nashton. That punk's ass is mine." Bullock leaned back and cracked his knuckles theatrically. "You tell me what you know, I'll be very grateful in th' future."

"Yeah," Mugsy said. "Okay. I like you, copper. I only know what I know cause I heard from this guy, y'know, you knows this other guy who has some inside stuff on the Cat. But I'll tell you what I know, 'bout Nashton. You just bring him in, get this guy off the street. Guy's a danger to the community."

* * *

><p>Okay, guys, I am SOOOOOOO sorry for the long wait. It's been crazy here. Hopefully, though, I should have more time to update in the next few months and get back to my regular schedule.<p>

Reviews are love!


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